Enthralled
by DamnDonnerGirls
Summary: Thrall (þræll), n., a slave or serf in Viking Age Scandinavia. After a successful raid, Gale is rewarded with a slave girl: the Saxon noblewoman Madge. Meanwhile, shieldmaiden Katniss grows closer to captive monk Peeta. Gadge/Everlark historical AU with background Odesta and other pairings.
1. Warrior

Talk about Throwback Thorsday! It's been more than a year since this fic was completed (October 9, 2014).

**If you're reading this for the first time:** Welcome! I hope you enjoy reading _Enthralled_ as much as I enjoyed researching and writing it. I am not an expert on the Viking Age—just a Standard Nerd™. Some of the names have been slightly modified to make them sound more Old Norse or Old English, but don't let that discourage you. So far, the feedback has been positive. (Note that the letters þÞ and Ðð, still used in the Icelandic alphabet today, are pronounced similar to "th".)

**If you're an old friend revisiting an old fic:** Since this fic was completed, I've made some minor edits for clarity. Also, in attempting to shorten the author's notes, I've made some of them... even longer. Whoops.

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**CHAPTER ONE**

**Warrior**

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By the time the summer raids came to an end and the Northmen set sail for home, Gæl Hallvardson desired nothing more but to sacrifice a thousand goats, and possibly the Christian priest Peeta, to Odin the All-Father.

They had lost many men, perhaps the most in recent memory, but all who survived agreed it had been a successful journey. For Gæl, it was especially so. Though it was but the third time he had gone a-viking, the eighteen-year-old was already one of the finest fighters in Tolv, and he was given ever higher shares of whatever booty they obtained. It was also no small matter that, as apprentice to the shipwright Beetee, Gæl had helped build their longboats with his own two hands. The sleek vessels were lighter, faster, more capable, and it filled the young man with pride in a way that no amount of silver could.

But the gods in their wisdom do not grant happiness easily, and there was good cause for the scowl that seemed permanently etched onto the young warrior's handsome features. Chief among his troubles was the shieldmaiden sitting a ways from him, mending her arrows and listening patiently to Jórunnr's increasingly embellished recollections of her exploits.

In truth, Gæl had never noticed Katnisse until his fourteenth year. She was two years his junior, and she was nothing like the other girls who flocked to Gæl gushing about his strength or his cleverness. She had no time nor patience for frivolity; she had eyes only for her little sister Prim.

Then, one summer, her father and Gæl's sailed away on the longboats, never to return alive.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

_"They are in Valhalla now," Gæl said as they watched the funeral pyres blaze. "It is better to die in battle, than on your back on straw like a cow."_

_"I do not care about Valhalla," Katnisse replied bitterly, then all of twelve years old. "My family needs my father more than the gods do."_

_The son of a Northman is always ready to take his father's place, but even so it was not easy for Gæl with two young brothers and a newborn sister. He was fortunate that his mother was strong, having been a shieldmaiden almost until the day she gave birth to her third son, but Katnisse's heartbroken mother had become sickly and frail. He could only wonder how her family was getting by._

_He did not have to wonder for long. When Gæl ventured into the woods to catch some game, he witnessed Katnisse's hunting skills for the first time._

_"That is mine," Katnisse warned him, training her bow on Gæl as the older boy crouched down to inspect the fallen deer._

_"I am not here to steal your deer," Gæl said as he removed the arrow from the creature's eye. "I am here to offer a trade."_

_And so their partnership began. Gæl taught Katnisse to set snares, and Katnisse taught Gæl to use a bow and arrow. Their households shared their meat and their crops, their homespun and their furs, and while they were never wealthy, it was enough to stave off the hunger and cold of deepest winter._

_Throughout all of this, Katnisse was blossoming into a beautiful young woman, and Gæl's admiration for her skill and self-sufficiency grew into love. In his sixteenth summer, Gæl decided that it was time to ask for her hand in marriage. It was customary to ask her father but, under the circumstances, Katnisse was already the head of her household._

_"Katnisse," he said one night. "Tomorrow I go a-viking for the first time. It may be that I will not return."_

_She nodded gravely. "I will take care of your family, the way you have taken care of mine. It will not be easy, but you have taught Róry and Vik well."_

_It was not the reaction for which Gæl had hoped, but he continued. "I am grateful for you. I could not have asked for a better partner. I only pray that you could be by my side at all times. Even as I fight, I will imagine that you are there, protecting me."_

_A slow smile bloomed on her lips. "If that is true, Gæl Hallvardson, your prayers will soon be answered."_

_Her words gave him pause. Gæl had extraordinary woman-luck, as his friend Bristl had called it, but Katnisse had never shown any interest..._

_"Your mother and mine are already in agreement," Katnisse informed him. "I am young still, only fourteen, so perhaps we will wait until the springtime."_

_He clasped her hands. "Is this true?"_

_She nodded, her eyes shining with happiness. "Yes, by Thor, it is true."_

_Overcome with joy, Gæl took her in his arms and crushed her body to his. She laughed as she returned his embrace. Encouraged by this, he lowered his head to hers, eager to claim what he knew to be her first kiss._

_"Stop!" Katnisse said, pushing him away. "What are you doing?"_

_He looked at her questioningly. "What does it look like I am doing? I am kissing my future bride."_

_She took a step back, her hand to her mouth. "I am not your future bride!"_

_"But you said—in the spring—" he faltered._

_Katnisse's face went crimson. "I was speaking of training, Gæl. My mother has agreed to let me train as a shieldmaiden. Your mother has told the jarl about my skill and strength, and he believes I will be an asset to the shield wall. I can protect you with my bow while you fight with sword and ax. Was that not your wish?"_

_"No—yes," he said. "Your bow can lead any army to victory. I will be honored to raid with you. But you can be a shieldmaiden and my wife at the same time. One does not exclude the other."_

_Katnisse's eyes filled with tears. "I am sorry," she whispered. "I care for you deeply, but I do not want to marry."_

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"You look troubled, Geilir," Finnbjorn said, taking a seat next to Gæl. The winds were strong and there was no need to man the oars.

Gæl frowned at the handsome, bronze-haired warrior. "I have told you many times. Do not call me that."

Finn chuckled. "I am surprised your parents did not give you that name themselves. It suits you so."

"I am not in the mood for idle chatter," Gæl grumbled.

Finn followed Gæl's gaze to Katnisse and Jórunnr. "It is always difficult to fight alongside your beloved, but you have no reason to worry. She did well on her first raid. I have never seen such skill with the bow."

Gæl never spoke of his feelings, but he found himself speaking freely with Finn. "She is my beloved, but I am not hers. She says she does not want to marry."

In a low voice, Gæl added: "And yet I see the way she looks at the priest."

"Ah." Finn nodded sagely. "A fortunate thing, then, that the priest's god forbids him to love a woman."

Gæl grunted, shifting his attention to the priest in question. Gone were the strange robes; the young Saxon was now clad in a simple shirt and breeches. With his blond curls tied back and the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks and chin, Peeta no longer looked terribly out of place among the Northmen. He had been captured just the year before, and Finn himself had almost dealt the fatal blow before the priest began sputtering in broken Norse.

The jarl and his wife Eyfri took Peeta into their household as a thrall—a slave—but it quickly became evident that Haymið valued the intelligent young man as something of an adviser. The jarl did not allow Peeta to baptize anyone, but he permitted him to grow his hair long, to distinguish him from other slaves. Haymið himself insisted that Peeta join future raids as a translator.

Even now, the jarl and the priest were deep in conversation, their heads bent towards each other. Occasionally, they would look over their shoulders at the captives they had of late taken from the kingdom of Panym.

"Haymið has something of a fascination with foreigners," Gæl observed.

"I understand he spent a month among their people, in his youth," Finn said. "It was his first raid and he had gotten separated from the group. A Saxon girl tended his wounds until he was rescued. It is said he was in love with her."

Gæl scoffed. "I find that difficult to believe. The jarl worships his wife as if she were Freyja herself."

Finn smirked. "It is the truth, I assure you. But Eyfri has nothing to fear. We both know a Saxon woman cannot compare to those in the North. One only has to look at my Anni, or your Katnisse, to know this is true." He paused. "Of course, there is always the exception."

Without looking, Gæl knew of whom Finn was speaking. The reason this summer's raids had been so profitable was that they had chanced upon a nobleman's wedding feast, with all the silver, gold, and jewels that entailed. But there was no doubt that the biggest prize of all was the bride herself, with her flowing locks of gold and eyes of deepest sapphire. Even calm, steady Thome had been ready to fight the berserker Cato for her. Haymið had to order them to stop before he lost any more of his best men.

"She is called the lady Margaretha," Finn said, as if reading his mind. "Her husband—the man with the strange beard, the one whose throat you cleaved—was the son of the earl, whom you killed as well. Her family had fallen out of favor with the king, and it was hoped that the earl would grant her protection."

"How is it that you know all of this, Finn?" Gæl asked.

Finn smiled, dimples deepening in his cheeks. "There is something about me that makes people want to tell me their secrets." He popped a berry into his mouth. "But in this instance, I asked the priest. He had spoken to her earlier and soothed her fears. Haymið has ordered that she not be harmed."

Gæl nodded. Important captives were often ransomed for a high price, especially if they were Christian. It was not surprising that Lady Margaretha would be sold back to her people thus.

"That is good. I hope her family pays her weight in gold," he said. "If I am lucky, she will take the priest along with her, seeing as they have become fast friends."

Finn looked at him in amusement. "She has no family. King Coriolan executed her father and mother. The earl and his son are dead by your own hand. Haymið plans to keep Lady Margaretha in Tolv, as a thrall."

Gæl felt a twinge of sympathy for the girl. "That is a shame. Well, if nothing else, it shall be entertaining to watch the men fight to have her."

"We have lost too many men this summer. Haymið will not allow it. He will decide for himself, and he will have the last word."

"I do not envy the jarl's duties. I would not know to whom I should give her." Thome was his friend, but Cato was dangerous when he did not get what he wanted. And they were only two men out of many, many more.

"It is quite straightforward, in fact," Finn said slyly. "Tradition decrees that the bride shall be given to the man who killed her husband."

Gæl's face grew ashen. "You cannot mean..."

Finn clapped him on the back. "May the gods be ever in your favor, Gæl Hallvardson."

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**A/N:**

Fans of History Channel's _Vikings _will have guessed that Athelstan inspired me to make Peeta a monk.

It is unlikely that women regularly joined the raids in real life, but the ladies of THG are such badass fighters that it just made sense to have shieldmaidens in this AU.

Tolv is Danish/Norwegian/Swedish for "twelve".

Geilir, Finn's nickname for Gæl, means "fiery, hot-tempered". It can also mean "yeller, howler", which I'd like to think has something to do with _gale_ meaning "a strong wind".

Many thanks to **epipole** for the correction; I've removed the reference to Uppsala from the first paragraph.

If these author's notes haven't bored you yet, I am **damndonnergirls** on Tumblr. You can find research notes and other commentary in my **#previously on enthralled** tag.


	2. Thrall

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**CHAPTER TWO**

**Thrall**

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Margaretha had always shown an aptitude for spying.

It was not intentional, at least not in the beginning. She had been playing hide-and-seek, and she was just congratulating herself on discovering another excellent hiding place when her father walked into the room. She was only six years old at the time, and did not understand a word of what he was saying to the earl, but she knew from their grave tones that it was important.

As Margaretha grew older, she began to seek it out: standing with her ear pressed to the door, crouching behind the strawberry bush, pretending to be asleep as her parents hovered over her bed and spoke in hushed voices. By themselves, the conversations she overheard and the messages she intercepted made no sense. But she pieced them together like parts of a puzzle, and soon it all became clear.

Her father was Lord Undersee, King Coriolan's master of coin, responsible for the royal treasury of Panym. But whenever people could not afford the full amount of their taxes, because crops failed or because disease decimated the livestock, Lord Undersee secretly falsified the accounts to show that they had no debt to the crown. Even when the king raised taxes to include "protection" from the dreaded Northmen and the books could no longer hide what the people owed, her father simply dipped into his own coffers to supply the difference.

"We can choose to live simply," her father told her mother. "Others are not so lucky."

Despite her father's efforts, unrest was brewing. The king was growing old, and becoming obsessed with immortality. The king decreed that each month, one village would be chosen to give additional tribute in the form of one young man and one young woman. What the king did with them, nobody knew. The tributes disappeared and were never heard from again.

"This is a tax that you cannot pay on the people's behalf," her father's good friend, the Earl of Heavensby, told him. The earl was seeking out rebels—noblemen and commoners alike—who shared his desire to overthrow the mad king, while remaining outwardly loyal to King Coriolan.

Margaretha was fifteen when Lord Undersee's treason was discovered. She did not know how or why. She only knew that one night, her mother roused her from slumber and told her that she had to leave immediately.

"You will go to Heavensby," Lady Magthilde said tersely. "The earl will protect you."

"Is it Father?" she asked. When her mother did not reply, Margaretha said, "I know everything, Mother. I have known for a while."

Lady Magthilde removed a gold medallion from her neck and put it around Margaretha's. "Our family sigil," she reminded her daughter. "The mockingjay. Promise me you will be brave."

Margaretha nodded, a lump forming in her throat.

Lady Magthilde threw her arms around her daughter. "We love you," she whispered. "Now fly, little bird, fly."

**.**

**ooo**

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Margaretha did not cry when she learned her parents had been burned at the stake. Neither did she cry when the tall, raven-haired Northman ran his sword through Earl Heavensby and buried his ax in Lord Seneca. She did not cry when the brutish blond held her down and started to reach under her skirts, only to be challenged by another comrade.

But after they had set sail, when the young man with the kind blue eyes spoke to her in the language of her people, it was as if a dam had burst. A year's worth of despair was unleashed and she could not, for the life of her, stop it. The young man did not hesitate to wrap his arms around her, and she gratefully accepted his embrace.

He was a Saxon, she learned, a monk who had just taken his vows when he was captured. His name was Peeta. He assured her that the Northmen were kind to him, and that they would be kind to her as well.

"I am sure you have heard the stories that the priests tell, of Northmen robbing women of their virtue," Peeta said. "They are greatly exaggerated, and I dare say that I know of many Saxons who are worse, but the stories do contain some truth. Nevertheless, Haymið has already decided to whom he shall give you, and you have my word that this man will not hurt you or force himself on you." He laughed. "Gæl is madly in love with another. He has not given any other woman a second glance in years."

Anyone else would have missed the tinge of bitterness in the monk's tone, but Margaretha was nothing if not a keen observer.

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**ooo**

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Pósy Hallvardsdottir launched herself into her eldest brother's arms the moment he stepped off the longboat. Róry immediately took possession of Gæl's weapons, while Vik basked in the privilege of carrying his shield.

It was good to be back in Tolv.

"Welcome home, son," Hejsel greeted him warmly. "I am glad that you came back with your shield, not on it."

Gæl kissed his mother's cheek, Pósy's arms still wrapped around his neck. "As am I. We lost many men, but we also brought back much silver and gold. It will be a comfortable winter."

"Gæl, Gæl, Mama said you were bringing home a present for me," the four-year-old demanded. "What is it?"

"A new sister, of course!" Finn said jovially, appearing with his heavily pregnant wife, Anlaug, in tow.

Pósy's eyes grew round. "A sister?" she shrieked. "Gæl, you are the strongest, bravest, most wonderful brother ever! Where is she?"

"Yes, Gæl," Hejsel said, her eyebrow raised. "I too would like to see Pósy's new sister."

Gæl shot his redheaded friend a scathing look. "It is not true, Mother," he said. "I am afraid Finnbjorn has suffered many injuries to the head. I would not believe a word he says."

Anni took it upon herself to explain. "Finn is not lying, but neither is he telling the whole truth," she said gently. "Gæl has won himself a prize. A beautiful Saxon girl."

"I did not win myself a prize." Gæl scowled. "I killed her husband, and Haymið would rather give her to me than let the men fight for her."

"Or Haymið knew that Katnisse did not want to marry you," Róry said.

Gæl rounded on his brother with a murderous look in his eyes.

Hejsel stepped between them before Gæl could knock Róry to the ground. "Let us see this girl," she interrupted, "while I still have three sons."

**.**

**ooo**

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"This man?" Margaretha whispered fearfully. "He killed my husband and my father-in-law!"

"That is precisely why," Peeta said under his breath. "According to their traditions, that gives him the right to you."

Not for the first time, Margaretha bemoaned the fact that she was born a woman. "How can you be sure that he will not hurt me?"

"I told you, he loves another. And you can see for yourself that he is devoted to his family."

The Northman looked as menacing as ever, with his heavy eyebrows knitted together and his imposing frame looming over everyone else in the room. But the effect was decidedly diminished by the small child who was clinging to him and smiling brightly every time she caught Margaretha's eye.

"His sister Pósy is rather delightful," Peeta noted.

They were accompanied by their mother—a tall, handsome woman who had the proud carriage of a warrior—and two boys who looked exactly like their brother.

Peeta translated for Margaretha as Haymið spoke to Gæl Hallvardson and his family.

"The girl is your thrall," Haymið declared. "She will help around the household and the farm as you see fit."

"I do not want a thrall," Gæl said stubbornly. "We have never had one, and we will never need one."

"If we have a thrall, you can spend more time apprenticing with Beetee," Hejsel said. "I think it is a good opportunity."

Gæl glowered. "She does not speak our language. She is a noblewoman and not accustomed to hard labor. She will be useless."

"Peeta will teach her," Haymið said. "He will stay with you and teach her until she learns. I will pay you for his upkeep, so you need not spend your own silver."

"My house is small enough without two thralls needing a bed," Gæl argued.

"You built a new house with last year's booty, did you not?" Haymið replied. That Gæl had built the house for Katnisse was left unspoken. "Stay there and let the thralls stay in the old house."

The matter thus resolved, Haymið waved Gæl away.

As Gæl was leaving, the little girl in his arms urged him to a stop in front of Margaretha, presumably so she could speak to the beautiful foreigner. But, at the last moment, Pósy was suddenly overcome with shyness, and she hid her face in her brother's broad shoulder.

Gæl looked at Margaretha from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. It was not a look filled with desire or lust, but it made her ill at ease just the same. He muttered a few words before stalking off.

"What did he say?" Margaretha asked.

Peeta grimaced. "_Pretty dress_."

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**A/N:**

Hejsel's motherly greeting (*cough*) was paraphrased from Frank Miller's _300._

It's very English to our ears now, but the _-by_ suffix in Heavensby is Scandinavian in origin. Here, I use it to make the Heavensbee surname sound more natural within this AU, and to allude to more peaceful/uneventful instances of Scandinavian migration and assimilation.

Houses used to be so small that it wasn't uncommon for thralls to sleep sitting up. But Gæl and Haymið's assumption (that beds would be provided for Margaretha and Peeta) tie in with other issues which will be explored later on.


	3. Shieldmaiden

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**CHAPTER THREE**

**Shieldmaiden**

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A lifetime of hunting could not have prepared Katnisse for the carnage of her first raid.

Oh, she was an excellent warrior; of that, there was no doubt. Her aim was true, and not a single arrow was wasted. Without her skill, many more of their company would surely have perished.

But when the battle was won, and Jórunnr climbed over a pile of corpses to stand by her side, Katnisse looked at her friend's blood-spattered face and realized with horror that it was a reflection of her own.

"You wanted to be a shieldmaiden," Katnisse reminded herself over and over. "You volunteered—begged—for the opportunity. This is the best way to provide for your family. Your father went a-viking, and so did his father before him. Now it is your turn. You must be like the valkyrie Brynhildr, fearless and formidable. No hesitations. No regrets."

**.**

**ooo**

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_In hindsight, the seeds of doubt had been sown as early as the start of her training. That was when Katnisse truly grasped the enormity of what was expected of her on the battlefield. But she did not speak a word of her uncertainty to anyone, not to Gæl, Jó, or Hejsel. Not even to her beloved sister Prim._

_Only once did she betray the contents of her heart. It was in the spring before they went abroad. The priest and translator Peeta had begun training with the warriors, so he could defend himself rather than rely on another. Finnbjorn always paired him with Katnisse, saying that she—an archer and fellow first-time raider—was not likely to injure him._

_Katnisse was enraged at what she perceived to be Finn's underestimation of her ability. She responded by immediately laying Peeta out flat._

_She regretted her actions as soon as she saw the wounded look in his astonishingly blue eyes. But she was proud and continued to fight in earnest while she still had the advantage. Peeta was strong, and a quick study besides._

_Although the Northmen rarely engaged in unarmed combat during their raids, it was still something that they all had to practice. Peeta was naturally adept at grappling, easily mastering in a month the techniques she had been learning for a year. Many times did Katnisse find herself on her back in the dirt, her legs wrapped around his torso but unable to gain purchase._

_"You are getting better," Katnisse conceded, flushed and panting, after one such match._

_Peeta hovered over her, so close that his sweat dripped onto her face. "I grew up with two brothers. This was our favorite pastime."_

_Katnisse soon felt comfortable enough with the young Saxon to sit next to him during their rest periods._

_"Here to finish me off, sweetheart?" Peeta said lightly as she drew near. He had been hesitant all day, as if he did not want to lay a hand on her. As a result, Katnisse had given him a beating._

_She ignored the pet name he had learned from Haymið, and instead sat quietly as she collected her thoughts. Finally, she dared ask the question that weighed so heavily on her mind. "What does your god think of killing other men?"_

_The priest looked startled, then introspective. "We have a commandment that says, 'thou shalt not kill'. And Christ once said, 'love thy enemy'. He said, if a man strikes your cheek, you should turn and bid him to strike the other."_

_Katnisse snorted. "That is ridiculous. Even Prim would think so, and she would not hurt the lice on anyone's head."_

_"That is what is written in our holy book. But Christ's ancestors, and those who now call themselves his disciples, well... they could be as cruel and warlike as any of your gods. They murder and torture in the name of God, and it seems they are not punished for their sins." Eyes closed, Peeta tilted his face up to the sky. "There are many things about my god that I do not understand. Things I may never be capable of understanding."_

_His long blond eyelashes caught the sunlight. Katnisse watched, spellbound, an unexpected warmth beginning to spread throughout her body._

_"Can you find happiness, serving a god whom you may never truly understand?" she wondered aloud._

_Peeta opened his eyes and touched his chest, an old habit from when he still wore a cross around his neck. "My unworthy mind can form but one explanation: that we are merely pieces in some divine game. I have come to realize that I do not want to be a plaything of the gods, whether mine, yours, or anyone else's. As a monk, who swore to live a life of obedience, this fills me with shame. My faith has given me much joy and I do not wish to throw it away."_

_"There must be a middle way," Katnisse said. "It is foolish to turn the other cheek as your Christ prescribed. But to be responsible for so much death... it is a burden that others can carry much more easily than I."_

_She clenched her bloodied hands into fists. "You must think me strange, a shieldmaiden who would rather not kill."_

_Peeta smiled, a sweet, gentle smile that lit up his face from within. "I have never met anyone like you, Katnisse Eyvindsdottir. But, no, I do not find you strange at all."_

_The warmth was becoming too much to bear. Katnisse averted her gaze quickly, only to meet Gæl's accusing stare. His silver eyes were no less beautiful than Peeta's and infinitely more familiar, but today they gave her no comfort. _My dearest friend, please understand, _she begged him silently._

_Gæl turned away, and a bitter taste filled Katnisse's mouth. Perhaps she should not emulate Brynhildr after all. For all of her bravery in battle, the legendary shieldmaiden's downfall was love._

**.**

**ooo**

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Gæl's new thralls were assigned their first task almost immediately after his audience with Haymið. By this time, other thralls had finished unloading the ships, and the warriors were busy filling carts with their share of the booty.

Róry and Vik started loading the family carts, as was their custom every time their brother returned from the raids. This time, however, Gæl stopped them. "The thralls might as well start earning their keep," he said curtly.

"It will be faster if we help," Róry said.

Gæl glared at him. He had not yet forgiven his brother for what he said about Katnisse, even if it was the truth. "You will not lift a finger."

Róry looked to their mother for support, but Hejsel shook her head. "Do as your brother says." She knew to pick her battles with her headstrong firstborn son.

Peeta exchanged a few words with Margaretha in their language, and she nodded. He set to work on the larger, heavier chests, while she carried those that were smaller and lighter.

Margaretha was tall, but she was slender and had the delicate bones of a bird. Nevertheless, she was stronger than Gæl expected. But before he could admit to himself that perhaps the lady Margaretha was not so useless after all, she stumbled over the hem of her long wedding dress, sending rubies and emeralds flying in all directions.

Gæl put his head in his hands and groaned audibly.

Peeta rushed to her aid, and so did Gæl's brothers. Even Pósy joined in, scooping up jewels with her little hands.

Hejsel watched for a while, then turned to her eldest. "I have been thinking. You should sleep with Margaretha and Peeta."

Four dark-haired heads whipped around to stare at their mother.

"Stay in the old house with them," Hejsel clarified. "It is hardly appropriate for Margaretha and Peeta to spend their nights together unsupervised, even if he has vowed never to have sex."

Gæl flinched at the word. "But I should stay with you and the children, for your protection. With these riches, who knows what thieves will take an interest in us?"

The former shieldmaiden looked at him coolly. "Thank you for your concern, but I can defend my children well enough. Besides, any thief who comes to our house from now on will be more likely to steal the beautiful foreign maiden, rather than riches that he could find anywhere else."

"I can do it," Vik volunteered. "I can sleep with Margaretha and Peeta."

Gæl's face flamed. "You will do nothing of the sort," he snapped at his youngest brother.

"Me, pick me!" Pósy piped up. "I want to stay with my pretty new sister."

Gæl made a strangled noise in his throat. "No, Pósy. And, for the last time, she is not your sister."

"Not yet," Pósy replied matter-of-factly before proceeding to suck her thumb.

"Róry, you will do it," Gæl declared, his mind made up. "After all, you stayed with Prim and her mother all summer while Katnisse was away."

Róry scowled. Whenever he did this, it seemed as if his transformation into Gæl was complete. "I do not think Prim would much like me to sleep anywhere near a girl like that," he said, inclining his head towards Margaretha.

"On the contrary, it is the perfect opportunity for you to prove your loyalty," Gæl countered. He resisted the urge to point out that Róry and Prim were only thirteen and twelve, respectively. "Prim will be very flattered if you still choose her, after spending so much time with the thrall."

"Róry, you will stay with Margaretha and Peeta," Hejsel ordered. "And Gæl, you are to call them by their true names. I know you are unhappy with the circumstances, but so are they. They have lost their freedom, their families, and the gods know what else. They deserve this basic courtesy."

Gæl knew his mother was right, and despite his pride he also knew that he should set a good example for his siblings. "I will, Mother," he said humbly. "Forgive me. I acted out of frustration."

He watched Margaretha limp to the cart with another chest in her arms. If she was going to be his thrall, the first thing she had to do was take that damned dress off. It kept getting in the way.

Images arose unbidden in his mind. _No, not that, _he thought. _Never that. _Gæl cursed Haymið under his breath.

This was a bad, bad idea indeed.

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

Brynhildr's story is very different from Katnisse's, but they were both BAMFs whose man problems sometimes overshadowed their true awesomeness.

In modern Norwegian, the word for "sweetheart" is _kjæreste._ That's close enough to "Katnisse" that I wanted to mention it here.

For those who asked/are curious: this story is about 60% Gadge and 40% Everlark, though it's difficult to define the exact boundaries because developments for one pairing would also significantly affect the other.


	4. Legend

.

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Legend**

.

Stories have wings. They fly over seas and meadows, through blistering cold and scorching sun. They travel on the lips of poets and in the hearts of children, taking root in lands far from where they came. No balm, no ale can comfort the soul of a weary wanderer more than a familiar tale that reminds them of home.

The skalds of the North and the scops of the Saxons alike tell of a young hunter who chanced upon a flock of swans alighting upon a lake. He watched in astonishment as the graceful birds shed their feathery white robes, transforming into beautiful maidens before his eyes.

The youngest was the fairest of them all, and the hunter fell in love with her at first sight. Alas, before he could summon the courage to approach, she and her sisters donned their feathers once more and took to the skies.

Some storytellers say it was his mother who told him the secret of the swans; others say it was a mysterious old man. What is certain is that, the next time the young hunter saw the maidens at the lake, he crept forth and stole the robe belonging to his intended. Some say he also took her enchanted necklace of gold.

Without her magical garb, she could no longer fly. Thus did the hunter claim the beautiful young woman as his captive.

The swan maiden became his wife and bore him many children. One day, however, she found the white robes and gold necklace that her husband had hidden from her. With one touch, she returned to her swan form and flew away.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Margaretha had never been so tired.

From the moment she slipped off her heavy white dress, she was no longer Lady Margaretha, noblewoman from the Saxon kingdom of Panym. No longer was she the daughter of the king's master of coin, nor was she wedded to the son of a wealthy earl. In her simple linen shift, she was but another thrall in the North, working ceaselessly from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning until the moment she closed them at night.

All vestiges of her old life had been stripped away, even from her dreams. At first she went to bed eagerly, hoping to glimpse a vision of her parents, their old home, anything to remind her of what she had once been. But there were no dreams to be had in the sleep of a slave, only fleeting images of the sullen man who had taken her freedom.

"Did you ever try to escape?" she whispered to Peeta at night, after Róry was asleep and snoring lightly. "You say they treat you well here, but surely you would rather be a free man."

"I jumped overboard," Peeta admitted, "on the journey to Tolv, when I was first captured. It was foolish, but I was desperate. I do not know how to swim, so I would surely have perished."

"Yet you are alive to tell the tale."

"I am alive because Finn saved me."

"Finn?" Margaretha recalled the flame-haired Northman who fought with a trident, the three-pronged spear she had previously only seen in her father's books of ancient pagan empires. Finn was conceivably the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and certainly the most maddeningly cocksure. Once, on the ship, he caught her looking and winked in a playful manner that infuriated her endlessly. "Was he not the one who almost killed you when they raided the monastery?"

In the flickering glow of the hearth, she saw Peeta smile ruefully. "Yes, he was," he affirmed. "Days later, he jumped into the sea and kept me from drowning."

Margaretha pulled the blankets tighter around her. "How strange these Northmen are."

"They are survivors," Peeta said. "Their land can be impossibly beautiful, but it can also be harsh and unforgiving. They do what they must to survive. They do not wish to kill, but they will do so if it means they may live, or if it can end suffering. Finn was ready to kill me before I proved I could speak their language. Afterwards, he protected me, because he knew I could be of use to his people."

"But it is not a matter of being useful," she argued. "We are human beings. Even if you could not speak their language, even if you could not speak at all, you have worth. How can you defend people who do not respect life? How can you speak kindly of the man who nearly took yours?"

The monk was silent for a moment. "Perhaps in the eyes of the Lord we are the same, but here on earth there is no equality," Peeta replied at last, his voice heavy with sadness. "Nobody needs me; my death would have inconvenienced no-one. But Finn is a husband, and soon he will be a father. Finn's life will be spent protecting his wife and child. Anyone would agree that his life is more valuable than mine."

Margaretha felt as if an icy hand was crushing her heart. "If that is true, then I wish King Coriolan had taken me as tribute, instead of burning my parents at the stake. My father and mother helped so many people, and they could have helped many more. It is as Gæl said. I am useless."

The light of the fire danced in Peeta's eyes. "It does not matter what Gæl says, Margaretha. All that matters is that you prove him wrong."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

At first Margaretha was given simple, unpleasant chores, things that required little skill, things that often concerned excrement. She mucked the animal stalls in the morning and again in the evening, burying the waste in the ground as there was no pressing need for fertilizer. Vik taught her to milk the goats and the cows, a task she performed twice a day while Pósy fed the chickens and the geese. Hejsel taught her to wash and mend clothes while the older woman sat at the loom, and to grind grain in a quern while Hejsel prepared their meals.

As for Peeta, during the day he tended a flock of sheep, and in the evenings he returned from the pastures to teach her Norse. "A long time ago, our ancestors lived south of the land of the Danes," he explained. "Our languages are like brothers. Though they now lead different lives, they had grown up side by side, and the similarities are plain to anyone who cares to look."

Margaretha found it enjoyable to learn a new language, and every day she understood more and more of what she heard around her. Peeta was delighted to watch her skills grow. He was less than amused, however, when Róry joined their lessons. The thirteen-year-old helpfully contributed words and phrases that left the gentle monk scandalized.

"We need to teach her important words," Peeta protested. "Proper words. Words she will need to work and communicate with you and your family."

"Stinkfart is an important word," Róry said solemnly. "I use it at least three times a day to describe Gæl."

By this time Margaretha knew enough to understand their exchange, and it made her laugh merrily for the first time since she was fifteen.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

The eldest Hallvardson was a rare sight to be seen on the farm. As Hejsel predicted, the presence of the thralls allowed Róry and Vik to take over many of the things that Gæl normally had to do. He therefore spent most of his time in town, trading the treasures he had acquired abroad and helping Beetee repair the longboats. Other times, he was in the woods, checking on his snares. Once he returned with a deer slung over his shoulders and Katnisse not far behind.

"Hello, Peeta," the shieldmaiden said warmly.

Startled, the monk lost his grip on the sheep he was shearing. Peeta fell backwards onto the ground while the animal dashed outdoors, bleating, its fleece dangling loose from one side.

"Katnisse," he greeted her, his cheeks pink. "It is good to see you again."

"I do not need to hunt so much anymore," Katnisse said. "But I find the taste of game preferable to that of farm animals."

"That is because you have never had my lamb stew," Peeta told her, having regained his composure. "Eyfri says it is the best she has ever tasted."

Katnisse tucked a stray braid behind her ear. "Perhaps you should visit my family and make it for us. Prim enjoys your company."

Gæl threw the deer down with a thud. "You should chase that sheep, Peeta," he said shortly, "before it runs back to the meadow."

Across the room, Róry caught Margaretha's eye. "Stinkfart," he mouthed.

Margaretha ducked her head to hide her smile. Róry's language lessons were proving to be as useful as Peeta's.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Margaretha knew she was making progress when Hejsel asked her to help prepare the morning meal.

They ate the same thing, barley or sometimes oats boiled in water, every day without fail. Sometimes they mixed in honey; other times, they added a touch of milk or cream. It was as much a part of their morning as the sunrise.

"Can I try something different?" she asked hesitantly after a week. "My mother used to cook porridge with spices. I would like to make it for you, if it pleases you."

The older woman looked surprised, but she acquiesced with a smile. "You are such a quiet thing, I did not know how much your Norse had improved until now," Hejsel complimented the thrall. "And yes, I would certainly like to try your mother's porridge."

Later, when the family was gathered around the cooking fire, Margaretha stood to one side and bit her lip nervously as Hejsel's children peered curiously into their bowls.

"What is in the porridge?" Gæl asked, poking at the brown specks on his food.

"Cow's milk, and spices from your expedition abroad," Hejsel answered. She beckoned to Margaretha. "Come, tell Gæl what you have prepared."

"The spices are called cinnamon and cardamom," Margaretha said softly. "They grow in faraway lands that the snows do not touch. We used to get them from Arab merchants."

"Hmph." He tasted the porridge. If he was impressed by her cooking, or by her command of his language, he did not show it. "I was told that small amounts of these spices can cost four head of cattle or more. I hope the princess does not expect to have such luxuries every day."

"There are many more things that you brought back, that only Margaretha and Peeta know how to use," Hejsel told her son. "They are quite clever. We can learn much from them."

Gæl poured in a little more honey. "It is a strange flavor. I do not think I like it."

Later, nobody dared point out that Gæl had polished off three large helpings.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

After Margaretha's success with the porridge, it was not long before Hejsel entrusted her with the dairy.

She approached her new responsibility with enthusiasm. She had spent the previous day bent over the quern until her back ached and her arms were so sore she feared they would fall off. Surely this task was infinitely preferable to grinding grain, and certainly more interesting than digging holes for dung.

But as Hejsel rattled off the instructions, going through each process and technique, the younger woman began to feel her head spin. Cream, butter, buttermilk, curds, whey, cheese, _skyr..._

And then Margaretha found herself alone, surrounded by milk and with no idea how to proceed. Hejsel had taken Pósy with her to run errands in town; Peeta, Gæl, and the boys were harvesting hay.

"You can do this," she muttered, willing herself to take deep breaths. "Just think back to what Hejsel taught you. Remember, every part of the milk is used. Nothing is wasted. Once you complete one task, the results will remind you of the next step."

So she set about her work, pouring milk into vessels and trying to recall everything Hejsel had said. When she finished churning and saw that she had indeed succeeded in making butter, she felt her confidence begin to return. By the time Hejsel and Pósy came back, she was all smiles.

"I was worried, but I think I am doing all right," she informed them. "I am almost done making the cheese."

However, Hejsel did not return her smile. "Something smells... different." She lifted the lid of each pot, checking the contents.

Margaretha's heart plummeted into her stomach. "What is wrong?"

Hejsel looked stricken. "Margaretha, did you boil the whey?"

"Yes," the thrall said uncertainly. "Should I... not have done so?"

"The whey is for drinking and pickling," the older woman explained. "Not for cheese."

A commotion by the door meant the boys had returned as well. "What is the matter?" Gæl asked, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene.

Margaretha's eyes prickled with tears. "I am so, so sorry." She cursed herself for not asking for help, for not remembering Hejsel's instructions exactly. For being orphaned, and then widowed. For allowing herself to be captured and enslaved, instead of throwing herself into the sea or running into the woods when she had the opportunity.

"It is an honest mistake," Hejsel told him firmly. "Anyone could have done the same."

"Yet this is the first time it has happened on our farm, and on any farm of which I know." Gæl's grey eyes glittered with fury. "How much whey?"

"All of it," Margaretha said in a small voice. "I truly am sorry."

Gæl slammed his fist down on a table. "This is not Panym, and you are not a princess here," he told her through gritted teeth. Each word was like a sword through her belly. "You cannot be your careless, wasteful self in the North."

"I am sorry," she repeated, her lips quivering and her chin trembling.

"Do not cry!"

She gulped down a few deep breaths and shook her head.

In the silence that followed, Vik raised his voice to speak. "You know... it tastes good."

Everyone turned to look at the ten-year-old. He had a knife in his hand, which he had stuck in the pot. A viscous brown mass now hung off its edge.

"You will eat anything," Gæl said dismissively.

Róry caught some of the whey cheese before it fell off Vik's knife. He put it in his mouth and chewed carefully.

"It is a little sweet, a little salty," he said after a while. His eyes widened, as if a great secret had been revealed to him. "Prim will love it."

Hejsel tried it for herself, then gave some to Pósy. "It is a bit grainy—it could be made smoother next time. And we can boil it for longer to make hard cheese. But yes, it is delicious."

"Next time?" Gæl echoed in disbelief.

"We do not have to use whey for pickling," Peeta said. "We can use brine or vinegar, and save the whey for making cheese."

Finally, Pósy, who had been quiet all this time, could hold her tongue no longer. "Stop getting angry at her!" she burst out, reprimanding the eldest brother she adored. "Everyone makes mistakes. I hate it when you shout at her."

She turned on her heels and ran.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Gæl found Pósy in the old house—the thralls' quarters. She sat on the bedstraw, clutching a bundle of cloth to her chest. Her face was dark with determination.

"Do you want to tell me what this is about?" he asked gruffly.

He pulled the bundle away from her and realized that it was Margaretha's white dress. "I am going to hide it from her," the little girl replied, "so she cannot fly away."

"Fly away?"

Pósy scowled. "She must be a swan maiden, and you must be the man who took her powers from her. Why else would she stay here, when you are always so cross with her?"

Gæl sighed, and drew his sister to him. "She is not a swan maiden, Pósy. Otherwise she would have been a swan the first time you saw her, when she was still wearing this dress. She is here because she belongs to me."

"Like a wife?" she asked hopefully.

"No. Like... one of your dolls."

Pósy sniffed. "My dolls are not real, Gæl. Margaretha is a person. You cannot own her like a doll. Will you promise me that you will not send her away?"

Gæl rested his chin on top of her head. "Why do you like her so much?"

Pósy ticked off the reasons on her fingers. "She is beautiful. She is very good at braiding my hair. She makes delicious porridge, and brown cheese that is sweet. She took care of me when I scraped my knee. She is clever, Mama says so all the time. She—"

"All right, all right," he interrupted. "You will run out of fingers and toes before you are through."

"She is quiet and kind," Pósy continued. "She will be good for you."

Gæl kissed her forehead. "I am not going to fall in love with Margaretha, and she is not going to fall in love with me, just because you told us to. That is up to us, not you."

"But—"

"But, yes, I promise not to send her away."

"Thank you, Gæl. I love you."

"I love you too, Pósy."

Not far from this tender scene between brother and sister, the thralls stepped away from their post at the door.

"What did Pósy call me?" Margaretha asked softly so as not to be overheard. "Earlier, when Gæl first entered. I have not yet learned those words."

"A swan maiden," Peeta replied. "The Northmen tell the same story to their children that our people do. You see, Margaretha, they are not so different, not so strange after all."

* * *

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**A/N:**

This chapter pays homage to my favorite Scandinavian cheese, known variously as _brunost_, _mesost_, _gjetost_/_geitost_, etc., which I first encountered in the spreadable version known in Norway as Prim (!) and in Sweden as _messmör_. I don't know who actually did invent it, but thank you to **epipole** for supporting the idea when I ran it past her!


	5. Shipwright

.

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Shipwright**

.

The house Gæl had built for Katnisse was not the largest in Tolv, nor was it the most lavishly decorated. But it was evident even to the idlest observer that it had been constructed with tremendous effort and care. Gæl had worked tirelessly with Beetee on the design, and many able-bodied men worked long hours to bring their ideas to life.

Only the finest trees from the surrounding forest—the forest where Gæl and Katnisse had first formed their friendship—were selected. Unlike most other residences in Tolv, there were private sleeping quarters with its own hearth for the man and wife of the house. This was in addition to the main room in which the rest of their household was to sleep, eat, and work. After spending years with Róry's elbow in his face or Vik's knee in his back, Gæl made sure that his future wife would not have to endure the same.

It had not been enough to change Katnisse's mind.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

_After his second failed proposal, Gæl did not come home for the night, and Hejsel ventured into the woods_ _the next morning to search for him. She found her eldest son sitting in a clearing with his father's sword in his hands. The sword he would have given to Katnisse on their wedding day._

_Hejsel called out her son's name._

_When Gæl did not answer, she knelt down and put her arms around him. Her heart ached for her firstborn, her beautiful baby boy who had ceased to be a child long ago._

"_I know this is difficult for you, Gæl," she began. "But I think it is time for you to let Katnisse go."_

_When he finally spoke, his voice was so low that she strained to hear it. "How did you... how did you_ _come to marry Father?"_

_Hejsel laughed softly. "I did not fall into his arms immediately, if that is what you are thinking. Have I never told you that I was once in love with Eyvind?"_

_Gæl's head jerked upwards, and he looked at his mother in bewilderment. "Katnisse's _father_?"_

"_He was the most wonderful poet," she reminisced. "His voice was as clear as a summer's day. When he_ _sang, even the birds would stop to listen. But his heart belonged to Katnisse's mother."_

"_And Father?"_

"_Hallvard was the most stubborn man that ever lived," Hejsel declared. "I was the only shieldmaiden in Tolv at the time, and I could not do anything right in his eyes. I remember swearing I would kill him myself. Every time I trained, I imagined throwing a spear through his thick head."_

_Gæl could not believe his ears. "Instead, you married him."_

"_That I did," she agreed. "The years that we were together... they were the happiest of my life. He gave me you, and your brothers and sister."_

"_What changed, that led you to marry him?"_

_Hejsel smiled. "He saved my life. Remember the scar on his shoulder? We were raiding in the East at the time. I was in the middle of a sword fight, and he took an arrow that was meant for me. Later, as I was bandaging his wound, I asked him why. Imagine my surprise when he said he had loved me all along. He said he was only hard on me to make sure I could take care of myself in battle."_

"_And then you fell in love with him too."_

"_It took some time. I did not believe it at first. He was so handsome, there were rumors that he had already bedded half the girls in Tolv. The truth is that there were a few, but certainly not to the extent I was led to believe. He was a very good kisser."_

_Gæl winced. "I do not think I want to hear any more of this story, though I asked you to tell it."_

"_But you see, my son," Hejsel said, "if I had pined for Katnisse's father, you would never have been born. Sometimes we find love where we least expect it. Sometimes love finds us. And it is far, far more wonderful, terrifying, and precious than we can ever dream it could be."_

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Beetee looked up in surprise when Gæl walked into his workshop the day after Margaretha made cheese from whey.

"Gæl," he said. "I thought you would be busy with the harvest. I have not set out any work for you."

The younger man sat down across from him, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. "If there is nothing to be done, I would like to stay a while nonetheless. I hope you do not mind my company. My home has become rather crowded as of late... I try to get out as much as I can."

The shipwright nodded in understanding. "The thralls."

"Yes. I am not yet used to having thralls."

"I am surprised you have never had any before, not even after you started raiding."

"My father took pride in our self-sufficiency," Gæl said. "He did not believe in obtaining thralls. We could certainly have used some help when he died, but without him, thralls were a luxury we could never afford. Even now that I have silver of my own, I find it difficult to go against my father's example."

Beetee chuckled. "I suppose, on behalf of my people, I should be grateful for men like you and your father."

"Your people?" Gæl echoed. "Ship builders?"

His mentor looked highly amused. "Gæl Hallvardson, I hope you are not being obtuse on purpose."

The protégé was growing impatient. "Why would I do such a thing? Speak plainly, old man."

"I am descended from slaves," Beetee replied simply. "My great-grandmother was from Nubia; she was captured and taken to Morocco. Her child—my grandmother—was herself sold and brought to Spain. By some twist of fate, my mother ended up in the North. She was my father's thrall before he freed and married her."

Gæl could only stare, his jaw slack. "Forgive me, Beetee. I did not know."

"Your parents did not tell you?"

"Nobody did. Not once."

Beetee considered this. "You yourself did not notice? Surely you did not think the color of my skin was brought about by the sun."

In light of this new information, Gæl conceded that Beetee was slightly darker-complexioned than others, especially in the summer, and his features were not wholly Northern. But he had thought nothing of those differences, no more than he thought of the difference between blond hair and red, or that between blue eyes and green. "Now that it is revealed to me, I can believe it. But if you had never spoken of your family, I would not take you for anything but a full-blooded Northman."

"I have always thought that, because I am successful in my trade, people now know me for my achievements, instead of my ancestry and my mother's former status. To my knowledge, you are the first one who never saw those things at all." The older man smiled. "That is progress."

Gæl mulled this over. "Was it difficult for you as a child? To know your mother had once been a thrall?"

"She and I were very lucky, for my father loved us dearly. He never once allowed anyone to speak ill of us, or to treat us differently," Beetee replied. "He was a good man. He raised me well, and he taught me all he knew."

"How do you—" Gæl hesitated. "How do you feel when the men take thralls? How do you feel about me, now that I have them in my home?"

"That is a good question," Beetee said. He looked thoughtful. "I believe slavery was an unfortunate consequence of man's need to survive. In order to survive, one must know the difference between an ally and an enemy. It is natural to assume that people who are different—because of their appearance, beliefs, language, or any other reason—are more likely to do us harm. It is better to be too suspicious than to be too trusting, for often this is what decides whether we live or die.

"But when we divide the world in such a manner, between those who are like us and those who are 'other'… we lose our empathy," the shipwright continued. "The slaver who captured my great-grandmother was not concerned about what would happen to her family without her, or whether her future master would be kind to her. He only saw her as a source of income… an object to be handed over to the highest bidder."

"What of your father?" Gæl asked. "Did he love your mother right away, or did he first see her as merely his thrall?"

"I do not know," the older man said honestly. "But to answer your earlier question, young Gæl... I am of two minds. Of course I wish slavery did not exist. To a free man, captivity can be a fate worse than death. Yet I also recognize that if my great-grandmother had not been enslaved, I would never have been born. At the very least, I would have been born a different person, perhaps one without the good life I enjoy today. It saddens me to think this way, but perhaps I owe my success, and my very existence, to the suffering of my ancestors."

"It is true, your life could have been worse if your ancestors had never become slaves," Gæl said. "But it could also have been much better."

"Aye. I ask the gods to protect all those who have been enslaved. I pray for all thralls to have my good fortune." Beetee looked at his apprentice. "I trust that you have been treating them well? The priest Peeta and—what was the young lady's name? I only remember that she was a great beauty."

"Margaretha," Gæl supplied. Her name felt strange and unfamiliar on his tongue, giving rise to sensations he did not have the words to describe. "Yes, I... well, not always... she is not my bed-slave, if that is what you are asking."

"I am glad to hear it."

He felt compelled to elaborate. "My mother would send me to my grave herself if I did so."

"Ah."

Still he plunged on. "But even if my mother approved," he added, licking his dry lips, "I do not think I can find pleasure in that." He blushed.

"You do not need to convince me."

They spoke no more of it.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

With Beetee's words weighing heavily on his mind, together with Pósy's from the day before, Gæl could not sleep.

He had never given much thought to slavery. It was true, his father had refused to participate in it, but that was because he believed in an honest day's pay for an honest day's work. Hallvard's pride did not allow him to accept help without expecting to give anything in return.

His mother was less proud, which was why she had agreed to take Margaretha into their home. But ever since Gæl was a young boy, Hejsel had always made it clear that she abhorred the way that some people treated their thralls.

"Killing is one thing, but abusing is another," the shieldmaiden had said. "Those poor girls... To think that if our army had lost, it could well be me in their place."

"I pity the man who tries to rape you, Mother," Gæl had replied loyally.

"I can fight, yes, but for how long? What if I were injured in battle? And what if you have a sister, a wife, a daughter, who cannot defend herself as I can?"

She had touched his cheek, still smooth and without a beard then. "The time will come that you will be a warrior like your parents. May the gods be ever in your favor, and may you always be a merciful victor."

Gæl thought of Margaretha: alone, without family, held captive in a land far from home. He had shouted at her yesterday, and he supposed he could have been friendlier since her arrival. But he had always been the merciful victor his mother had described, had he not?

He sighed and rolled over onto his stomach. Finn was right: he did have a temper. He shouted at everyone. But even he had to admit that he was quicker to anger when it came to her.

It was not that he hated Margaretha. Why would he? She had never slighted him in the least. Even though she was highborn, she never put on airs. She worked hard and without complaint. She was generous with her smiles, especially with the children. The only thing was that, even with her increasing mastery of Norse, she spoke little if at all. It was as if she desired nothing more but to fade into the background.

_Of course_, he thought, _she never could_. Even if Margaretha were standing with her back to him, in a crowd full of other women with her build and coloring, Gæl would always be able to recognize her effortless grace.

The truth was that Margaretha was a painful reminder. By all accounts, she had never needed to work a day in her life until she was captured. She was an only child who never had mouths to feed, and whose parents were able to care for her until she was old enough to marry. She had never huddled for warmth with starving children who depended on her for their continued existence. She had never feared death when the food and firewood had gone but winter had not.

Beyond that, she was a Saxon. Like the man who killed Gæl's father in battle. Like the priest who had now caught Katnisse's eye, however vehemently she denied it.

Katnisse.

Perhaps more than anything else, having Margaretha in his home was a painful reminder that Katnisse was not. The young shieldmaiden was his dearest friend, his most trusted companion. But, as hard as he tried to convince her otherwise, she did not wish to be his wife. Katnisse would never belong to him.

And then there was his thrall. Margaretha was not a prize; that would imply he had wanted her in the first place. Surely it had not been his intention to win her, when he killed the man standing by her side at her wedding feast. But by some trick of the gods, she was now his. She was making his food. She was taking care of his siblings. She was already doing everything a wife would do for her husband.

Almost everything.

Though, had he been willing, he could have had her long ago.

Deciding that further attempts to sleep were futile, Gæl eased himself off the bedstraw. He fumbled in the dim light of the fire until at last his hand closed upon his shirt and breeches. He dressed himself quietly.

He walked, slowly and stealthily like the hunter he was, to the main room where his mother slept with Vik and Pósy held close to her. He allowed himself a small smile. How lucky Hallvard had been, when he won Hejsel's love.

Pulling his cloak from where it hung on the wall, Gæl's eyes fell on the vessels that contained the thrall's accidental invention. He had not yet tasted the cheese for himself. His mother had informed him that neither had Margaretha.

He took some cheese and bread with him, taking a first bite before walking out into the night.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

It was as if his thoughts had summoned her to him.

Margaretha nearly jumped out of her skin when Gæl put a hand on her shoulder. She muttered something under her breath. If he did not know any better, he could have sworn she had called him a stinkfart.

"I am not causing any trouble," she said. "I will return to my quarters soon. But for now, I beg you, leave me in peace."

"Margaretha, I—" Gæl faltered. "It was wrong of me to lose my temper yesterday. I am sorry."

He held out the cheese and bread. A peace offering. "You should taste what you have made. My family spoke the truth... It is delicious."

"If it were not delicious," she said, her voice hard, "would you have apologized?" She was not making this easy for him, but he knew he deserved it.

"Yes," he answered immediately. "Regardless of how it tasted, I should not have reacted the way I did. My anger did not solve the problem. It did not accomplish anything."

She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. "Good. On this we can agree."

Her words were calm but pointed, and she held his gaze steadily, as if daring him to defy her. Where had the quiet, submissive girl gone? What would it have been like to know Margaretha in another life, a life in which she was not his thrall?

"Eat with me," he said, breaking off a piece of bread and cheese.

She looked at him suspiciously.

"Just one bite," he urged. "If you do not like it, I will go back into the house. I promise."

She pulled away when he held the morsel to her lips. "What are you... I am not a child!"

"You smell like one," he surprised himself by saying.

Blonde eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"You do." Gæl had always kept his distance, but now he was engulfed by her scent. "You smell like Pósy, Vik, and Róry all did when they were babies." It brought out a primal need in him to take care of her.

Margaretha frowned, but she accepted the food he offered. "Just because I smell like a child—if that were even true—it does not mean you should treat me like one."

"Do not worry. If I treated you like a child, I would be rather good at it," Gæl said. "I am already raising three children, all more troublesome than you."

"You have just met me," she replied. "You have no idea how troublesome I can be."

He lifted an eyebrow. "We shall see about that."

Gæl watched Margaretha take a bite. In the moonlight he could see the way her pale pink lips parted, how her teeth sank into the bread and cheese. How the expression on her face changed from hesitation to pure bliss.

"It _is _good," she marveled.

He had to chuckle. "You sound surprised."

"This is the best mistake I have ever made," Margaretha declared as she took another bite.

"Your porridge was not a mistake," Gæl reminded her.

She looked at him triumphantly. "Are you now admitting that you enjoyed it?"

"It was... an acquired taste."

"You acquired three bowls of it."

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, I did."

The corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. "I accept your apology, and I hope you will accept mine. I grew up... I am a solitary person. I have always tried to solve problems on my own. I know now to ask for help, or wait until I can do so. I am still learning."

Gæl held her gaze. "So am I."

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

This chapter was intimidating to write. I didn't want to romanticize slavery and Stockholm Syndrome—well, not more than I already was, anyway. It was tricky because these _were _the norms in the Viking Age (and truthfully in the 21st century we still have some ways to go) but I also wanted to portray genuine kindness and progressive thinking. I hope that I was able to strike a balance.


	6. Monk

.

**CHAPTER SIX**

**Monk**

.

Contrary to what one would expect, Peeta was not the religious one in the family.

Or, rather, it had not always been that way. Peeta was the youngest son, the third of a brood of strapping blond boys. As was custom, his eldest brother Mattheu was groomed from childhood to take over their father's modest but productive farm. The second son, Josef, was to be given to the Church. Peeta, the third son, was expected to become a soldier and die in the service of the king.

He was, as his mother had called him, after years of labor had caused her to grow weary and bitter, the spare.

Until one day, that fateful day when the young men and women of the village drew lots to decide who would be given as tributes to the tyrant King Coriolan, the day Josef pulled out the shortest straw.

Peeta would never forget a single excruciating memory of that day. The king's men surging forward, binding Josef's arms behind his back. His mother thrashing, sobbing, collapsing into a heap on the ground. His father, his back bowed and his spirit broken, uttering the low, guttural moan of a dying animal.

It was a sound that haunted Peeta's every waking moment. Even when he left the farm and came to the monastery, the memory of it rendered his soul rigid with fear.

(Thus saith the Lord; A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation, _and _bitter weeping; Rahel weeping for her children refused to be comforted for her children, because they _were _not.)

Until one day, another fateful day after the Northmen came and made the river flow with the blood of holy men, the day Peeta threw himself into the sea.

Peeta would never forget a single moment of that day. The freezing water, like being cut by a thousand knives all at once. Pinpricks of light blurring and fading as he sank deeper into the darkness. Into oblivion.

And then—suddenly—salvation.

"I did not spare your life just to let you drown," Finn had said, saltwater dripping from his hair and his beard. His eyes were green like the first shoots of leaves in the spring.

Haymið's fingers had wrapped around the cross on Peeta's chest. "Your life is not yours to end."

Perhaps the jarl meant that Peeta's life, like his freedom, was now in the hands of the Northmen. But, whatever his intention, his words removed all fear from Peeta's heart. The fear he had carried since losing Josef had disappeared, as if washed away by the tides that had so nearly killed him.

At that moment, the monk felt transformed. He was like a newborn babe, innocent and wondrous, his whole life ahead of him.

(_He is _a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.)

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

And so it came to pass that Peeta proved himself indispensable to Haymið's household, and indeed to the jarl himself. He grew to love the North, finding that his nightmares had no power over him there.

But if there was one thing that he missed from the monastery, it was his work. What little peace Peeta found in his former life, he found in painstakingly copying scripture. He could spend hours mixing pigments and applying gold that was hammered thinner than a feather. The older monks praised his work and unanimously agreed that the young man had a keen eye for art, beauty, and harmony.

Haymið knew this, and made sure to find quills, inks, and other materials for his thrall when they plundered Panym. Margaretha's wedding feast had been an exceptionally rich resource.

When Peeta was sent to Gæl's home, he brought these with him. But between his chores and his new friend's language lessons, he had scant chance to use them.

So when the rare idle moment presented itself—Gæl had been in unusually high spirits, and did not give him more work to do after finishing his tasks early—Peeta gathered his things and ventured into the forest to draw.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Someone was singing.

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

The voice was unmistakably female, but stronger and richer than anything else Peeta had ever heard, drawing him in like the legendary song of a siren.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from harm_

The singing was growing louder, a sure sign that its source was near, but still Peeta moved forward, enraptured. It was like he was drowning again, this time not in the sea, but in a voice that seemed too beautiful to be real.

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I—_

Katnisse screamed.

The sound jolted him out of his reverie, pulling him back to the surface and to the present. Back to—

Peeta could not turn around fast enough. He clutched his charcoal and parchment to his chest, as if they could silence the wild thrumming of his heart.

But it was too late; the image of the shieldmaiden's naked form had seared itself into his mind. Her glorious, glistening skin. The sun glancing off the curves of her hips and her strong, shapely legs. She was a thing of beauty such as he had never before seen. _Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned._

"I—I am sorry," he stammered, his back to her. "I did not mean to… to disturb you."

When she did not respond, he spoke again. "Katnisse? Are you all right? I did not mean to—"

"I know you did not mean to," she said at last. A heartbeat, then: "You can turn around."

The monk slowly turned to face her, but he kept his eyes on the ground.

"It is quite all right. I am dressed now."

Peeta lifted his gaze and found Katnisse in her usual shift. Their eyes met and she smiled sheepishly.

"Washing day," she said, by way of explanation.

As she wrung water out of her long, dark locks, wet spots formed on her dress, and Peeta could hardly stop himself from recalling the perfect roundness of her breasts. He reflexively lowered his hands, so that they would come to rest in front of his loins.

"You were singing," Peeta said, desperately grasping for something else to think about. "It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard."

This seemed to embarrass Katnisse even more than the thought of him seeing her naked. "No-one has heard me sing in a long time. Not... not since my father died."

"Your father was a great poet," Peeta said. Knowledge of poetry was essential in a warrior, and Haymið had always said Eyvind's skill in this regard was unparalleled. "I know his work well. And yet I have never heard this, or any other song of a similar meter, until today."

"It was my lullaby," she said quietly. "Mine and Prim's. He would sing us to sleep with it. It is not for other skalds to sing. It was... not meant for anyone else to hear."

Peeta felt a wave of regret and sorrow wash over him, knowing that he had trespassed upon this most precious of secrets. "Now I am even more sorry."

"It could not be helped," Katnisse said, shrugging. "And if a man had to see me, I am glad it was you."

He could hardly believe his ears. "You are?"

"Because you are a priest," the shieldmaiden replied matter-of-factly. "A priest of Christ. You are not ruled by such desires as other men have."

"Oh," Peeta said. "Yes, of course."

Suddenly he remembered training with her, the way she felt underneath him as she squirmed to break free of his grip. The way _he _felt, the few times she had managed to pin him down. _Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned._

"Are you here to wash as well?" Katnisse asked, running a comb through her damp hair. She gestured towards the stream. "You can go ahead. I promise not to look," she added solemnly.

"No," the monk managed to say. "I was not planning to bathe until later. I... I came here to draw."

She stepped closer to him, close enough for Peeta to breathe in her wildflower scent. "Draw?" she repeated.

"Yes. The trees and the sunlight, the flowers and the stream." _But they are nothing compared to you, _he thought. If he could only capture her beauty and her kindness, distill her essence and keep it with him at all times.

"I should like to see your drawings," the shieldmaiden told him. "Will you be at the harvest feast?"

"I suppose so," he said uncertainly. He had attended the year before, when he was new to Tolv.

"I will make sure Gæl brings you," Katnisse said. "You make sure to bring your drawings."

Peeta nodded. "I shall be counting the days." He meant every word.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

If there was anything that Peeta knew to expect from one of Haymið's feasts, it was that there would be enough mead and ale to baptize the whole of the North.

"Ah, if it is not Gæl Hallvardson himself," the jarl proclaimed, raising his drinking horn as their party approached. "Here to return my thrall?"

Gæl merely replied with a noncommittal grunt.

Haymið turned to Hejsel. "His eloquence notwithstanding, you have raised a fine young man, and one of the best fighters I have had the honor to raid alongside. You must be proud. Hallvard would have been proud."

"Thank you, Haymið," the former shieldmaiden said. "I know in my heart that this is true."

The jarl's eyes fell on Margaretha. "And you, my dear, are even lovelier than I remembered. It would seem that life in the North suits you."

Margaretha was already halfway through a curtsy when she remembered that such obeisance was foreign to the halls of the Northmen. "You are too kind, my lord," she said stiffly.

Haymið clapped Peeta on the back. "Her Norse is excellent," he said with pride. "You have taught her well."

The jarl turned back to his prized warrior. "It would seem to me that Peeta's work is done," he told Gæl.

"I will make arrangements for his return," the younger man replied.

"Very well. I shall expect him in my household within the next few days." Haymið took a swig of ale. "But for now, let us celebrate."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

There was a man staring at her.

Margaretha fidgeted nervously, alternately crumpling and smoothing her dress. He looked vaguely familiar, but try as she might, she could not place where they had met, or if they had even met at all. After all, she had only been in the North for two months, and nearly all of that time was spent with Gæl's family.

Perhaps this man was related to Gæl, or to Katnisse? He had the same dark hair and grey eyes, and similarly symmetrical features. The thought made her slightly resentful. Were there any unattractive people in Tolv?

Margaretha felt herself backing away when she realized that the stranger was advancing towards her. Could he read her mind? Had she let her guard down, and allowed her feelings to show on her face? She looked around frantically for Peeta, but he had disappeared into the crowd with Katnisse. Hejsel and Gæl were off to one side, with Finn and Anni.

"Hello," the stranger said kindly. "We meet again."

"Um," she replied, flustered. "Hello."

"You do not remember me," he said, looking disappointed.

"Forgive me," she said. "I am a little overwhelmed. Everything is new to me."

He smiled. "That is true. And perhaps it is difficult to recognize one whom you have only seen covered in blood."

It was as if a fog had lifted from her mind. "You!" she gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth in amazement.

It was him. The man who pulled the blond warrior—a berserker, Peeta had called him—off her, the day they raided her wedding feast. The man standing before her now, he had most certainly saved not only her virtue, but her life too.

He reached out and brought her hand to his lips. "We were never properly introduced. I am called Thome."

"I am called Margaretha."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"—eating me out of house and home," Finn was saying, an affectionate hand on the swell of Anni's belly. "The baby cannot come soon enough."

"The baby knows that winter is almost here," Hejsel told him. "It would rather stay in her womb, where it is safe and warm. Gæl was that way as well, before he was born. Gæl?"

"Mmph," he muttered, his thoughts elsewhere.

First he had seen Katnisse lead Peeta out of the hall. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he had noticed Thome walking across the room to Margaretha and striking up a conversation with his thrall.

Now Thome was kissing her hand, and it looked like he had no intention of letting go.

Gæl ground his teeth. He knew his friend had wanted her from the start, he had even fought Cato for her, but Haymið would never stand for this. _If he does not let go in ten seconds,_ _I am going there myself. One... two... three..._

He was about to move towards them when a cry of pain stopped him in his tracks. He turned around in time to see Anni fall back into her husband's arms.

"The baby," Anni said, her face pale. "It is coming."

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

The Icelandic word for Saturday is _Laugardagur_: literally, "_laugar _(pools) day" or "washing day". In the early medieval period, Scandinavians were known to take baths once a week, a practice that others considered excessive at the time. Yep, Vikings were the clean ones! Maybe it was all that blood they had to wash off...

I want to clarify that I use the terms "thrall" and "slave" interchangeably because I believe "slave" is a valid, generic term for the unfree in any culture. The various academic and popular sources I consulted also use the word "slave" in this manner.

However, I've been reminded that the word "slave" brings to mind excessive abuse, which is unfortunate because thralls seem to have been treated relatively well and, in some places, had some protection under local laws. Therefore, I will use the word "slave" less from now on, and I've gone back and made minor edits to previous chapters to the same effect. However, I do not want to stop using the word "slave" altogether because, in the end, that's what thralls were. I think we can agree that whenever there is a power imbalance, there will always be potential for abuse.

Thank you so much to everyone who contributed their thoughts on this subject, Scandinavian or otherwise :) I'm glad for the opportunity to have this discussion.


	7. Jarl

.

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**Jarl**

.

When Anni's labor pains began, the jarl's wife swept in and took command. Eyfri instructed her thralls to take Anni next door to the jarl's residence, where she could give birth while the feast continued in the great hall. "What a big, big day this has turned out to be!" Eyfri gushed as she bustled about.

They found Peeta and Katnisse outside. "What are you doing here?" Eyfri demanded.

The two of them jumped apart. "Looking at drawings," Katnisse said without a trace of guilt.

Anni moaned in pain. Finn, who was carrying her, looked alarmed.

"Katnisse, go and fetch your mother," Eyfri ordered. "This might be a difficult birth."

"Difficult?" Finn cried out. "What do you mean?"

"Silly man," Eyfri chided him. "Can you not tell?"

"Tell _what_?"

Eyfri gently placed her hand on Anni's enormous belly. "Your wife is having twins."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"So..." Jórunnr said slyly, when she and Katnisse were on their way to get Katnisse's mother. "Drawings, eh?"

Katnisse ignored her friend's knowing tone. "Yes, drawings. Peeta is a marvelous artist, and I have asked him to help me record my parents' knowledge of edible and medicinal plants. With my father gone and my mother not as she once was, I do not wish to lose the valuable lessons they have taught to me and Prim."

"I am not worried about Prim," Jó laughed. "But I can see why _you _would need a record, brainless."

It was times like these that Katnisse wondered why she was friends with Jó.

Or rather, she knew why, but it was times like these that she questioned the wisdom of it.

Jó was the only other shieldmaiden in Tolv, and she was a berserker to boot. She had lost her sister to sickness at a young age, and while she never said so in as many words, she treated Katnisse as somewhat of a surrogate. She lavished onto the archer all the love—and all the relentless teasing—that she would have given a true sister.

"I cannot believe that, after multiple marriage proposals from the mighty Gæl Hallvardson, it would take a meek little Christian priest to melt the icy heart of Katnisse Eyvindsdottir."

Katnisse clenched her jaw. "For the thousandth time, I am not in love with Peeta. And I cannot believe you are accusing _me _of having an icy heart. I have refused one man, while you have rejected countless others."

"It is no fault of mine that they failed to defeat me in single combat," Jó said breezily.

"Not everything has to be settled by a fight," Katnisse reprimanded her.

"I fight; you moon over pretty Saxon men," Jó shrugged. "To each her own."

"Have you been talking to Gæl?" Katnisse asked suspiciously.

"It is harder to get a word out of Gæl, than for shit to come out sideways," Jó pronounced. "Why do you ask?"

"He is like you, convinced that I love Peeta."

"Interesting, then, that we separately came to the same conclusion."

"Peeta and I are just friends. Although—" Katnisse bit her lip.

Jó's ears perked up at the slight change in tone. "Yes?" she asked eagerly.

Katnisse turned bright red. "Nothing."

"You would not have mentioned it if it were nothing."

The archer finally relented. "He saw me naked. Last washing day."

"_In the name of all the gods_," Jó hollered. "Why have you not told me until now?"

"It is not a subject that comes up naturally," Katnisse defended herself. "And besides, he did not do anything. He turned away immediately, and apologized over and over again."

"How did he come upon you?"

"I had just finished bathing in the stream—"

"The stream in the forest?"

"Yes."

"The forest where you and Gæl go."

"Yes," Katnisse said impatiently. "What of it?"

"In all the years I have known you, you have never bathed outdoors, by yourself, somewhere your lovelorn hunter could find you. Somewhere any half-witted man could find you."

"That was not a choice I made on purpose," Katnisse said sourly. "I just... never thought to bathe there before."

"But now, apparently, you do. Now that Peeta is living with Gæl, and would certainly be wandering thereabouts." Jó watched in amusement as her friend squirmed in silent discomfort. "Why did you reject Gæl, to begin with?"

Katnisse sighed. "Have you forgotten? I have sworn never to marry."

"I would never marry a sullen idiot myself, but Gæl would certainly be good for a great many things other than marriage." Jó waggled her eyebrows. "And you were not open to any of those things, it seems."

"I would never have a relationship with someone I did not intend to marry," Katnisse said, scandalized. "It is just not in my nature."

The way that Jó looked at her compelled Katnisse to explain herself. "It is my parents' fault, I suppose," Katnisse said grudgingly. "They were so in love. And when my father died, a part of my mother died as well. To love someone so much that his absence would change who you are... that is my greatest fear. But at the same time, it is the only reason I would ever want to marry someone."

The smile on Jó's face was sincere. "That was beautiful, Katnisse. I never thought you were capable of such eloquence."

"I am Eyvind's daughter, remember?" Katnisse said. "There is another thing. When Father died, leaving a family of three women behind, Haymið went to visit us. He counseled my mother to find another man and remarry immediately, saying it was the only way we could survive the winter. When she refused, the jarl turned to me. I was twelve years old, but some girls my age were already married or betrothed. He gave me the same advice: to marry as soon as possible, so that my family could be provided for by some man. And it made me so _angry_."

Jó's countenance darkened. "If Haymið told me that, I would surely kill him."

"I know now that he was merely being practical, but at the time I felt like he was insulting my father's memory, and trampling on everything I learned from my parents about love and marriage. So I told Haymið I would never marry, and as the years passed nobody gave me cause to reconsider."

"Not even your best friend?"

"I felt… betrayed, I suppose, when Gæl said he wanted to marry me. I thought we understood each other, but I was wrong. All the efforts he made to convince me—reminding me of the benefits of formally uniting our families, building a house for me—they were the same arguments Haymið had made when I was twelve. That was not what I wanted."

A lump formed in Katnisse's throat, but she carried on. "Perhaps that is why I am so comfortable in Peeta's company. He is a thrall, with nothing to offer me in the way of wealth or property or security. He is a priest, sworn to never know the marriage bed. With Peeta I can be myself, the way I am with you, the way I am with Prim. The way I was with Gæl."

"What if Peeta were to renounce his vows and take a wife?" Jó ventured. "Gæl's new thrall, Margaretha, for example. She is beautiful, and she is from Peeta's homeland. They have been inseparable since the day they first met. It is only a matter of time, I think, before Haymið frees Peeta. Who knows? Maybe Gæl will free her, too."

The thought had never occurred to Katnisse before. "Well, then... I would support Peeta, because he is my friend. Whatever makes him happy."

"And what if it were me?" Jó teased her.

Katnisse scowled. "Peeta could never beat you in a fight."

"A lovely little boy like Peeta could persuade me to change my policy," Jó cackled. "He would not even have to renounce his vows. I have never seduced a priest before. I imagine I shall enjoy it greatly."

"You would not dare."

"I am your friend too, am I not? Would you not want me to be happy?"

"That is not happiness," Katnisse rebuked her. "That is—"

"Bliss," Jó supplied, smirking. "Ecstasy. Raw, unbridled sexual fervor. I could go on."

"Jó!"

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

After Katnisse left with Jó, Peeta made his way back to Margaretha. His eyebrows shot up in surprise at the sight of Thome still holding her hand. "Thome," he greeted the warrior.

"Peeta," Thome replied cordially.

"What is going on?" Margaretha cried.

Peeta's smile was like the sunrise. "It is the most wonderful news," he told her. "Eyfri says Anni is having twins."

"Twins," Margaretha said dumbly. The word made her dizzy.

"Yes, twins," Peeta repeated. "Are you all right?"

Thome touched her arm. "What is wrong?"

"I—I have to go," she mumbled. She could not breathe.

She stumbled into Gæl's arms on her way out of the hall. "Margaretha," he said, engulfing her narrow wrists in his large hands. He looked stricken. "What happened? Did Thome—"

"Please," she croaked. "I just need some fresh air."

Gæl led her out of the hall and watched helplessly as his thrall retched into a nearby bush. As it happened, Haymið and Beetee were just passing by, and the shipwright shot his apprentice a look of disbelief.

_It is not what you think, _Gæl wanted to shout. _I never touched her, I swear._

"Let me handle this, Gæl," Haymið told him.

"But—"

"Go back inside."

Beetee put his hand on Gæl's shoulder and steered him back into the hall, shaking his head.

"You told me—" Beetee began sternly.

"I was telling the truth!"

The door closed behind them, and Haymið turned to look at Margaretha. "You look far too sad for such a joyous occasion."

Margaretha hurriedly wiped the moisture from her eyes. "Tears of happiness, my lord."

Haymið smiled ironically. "Dearest Margaretha, I did not achieve my station by being easy to fool."

"I did not mean to offend you."

"Of course not. No offense was taken." The jarl looked up at the night sky. "Tell me, Margaretha, do you know why I gave you to Gæl?"

"I—" Margaretha was confused. Why was he asking her this now? "Because by killing my husband, he won the right to me."

"That was one consideration, and a rather convenient one at that," Haymið conceded. "But it is not the whole truth."

"Then why, my lord?"

"Gæl is a complicated man," Haymið said. "He is full of fire, as you have doubtless learned for yourself. But he is tempered by his love for his family. He had the benefit of being raised by a strong mother, a shieldmaiden no less, who would never allow a woman to be abused in her home. And when all is said and done, he is his father's son, and Hallvard was the most honorable man I have ever known. His pride and his sense of justice was... maddening, to say the least, but we all respected him for it. He was the one man in Tolv who never took a thrall, not for labor, not for pleasure, not even for appearances or status. If I could trust one man in Tolv not to harm you, it would be the son of Hallvard and Hejsel."

"I thank you for your concern, but you have given me more questions than answers," Margaretha said. "Why do you care so much about my welfare? Why did you not bring me into your own household, where you could see for yourself how I was being treated? For that matter, why capture me at all?"

"Perhaps," Haymið said, "this will make things clear." He dipped his hand into the collar of his shirt, that he might reveal what he was wearing around his neck.

It was a mockingjay medallion.

Margaretha gasped. She had tucked her medallion into the folds of her wedding dress, into the bundle Pósy had mistaken for swan maiden garb. Margaretha slept with one hand on it every night.

"How did you—" she began. "That belongs to me!"

"It is mine," Haymið corrected her. "Maysilleigh gave it to me, to remember her by."

The blood drained from her face.

"The first time I saw you at your wedding feast, I knew," Haymið said. "You are the image of the woman I loved when I was myself sixteen. Are you her child?"

"She was my aunt," Margaretha whispered. "My mother's twin sister. She died when I was just a baby... I do not have even a single memory of her."

Haymið nodded sadly. "For a moment I had believed... I had hoped against hope you were Maysilleigh's daughter. Hers and mine. You would be the right age."

Terror struck her heart. Was it possible? "No," Margaretha said. "It cannot be."

"The mockingjay, is it not the sigil of your mother's house? Why do you not carry the sigil of your father's house?"

"My father was an orphan," Margaretha said. "He was a ward of my mother's family. When they married, she took his name, but they kept her sigil. It... it has a special meaning." The mockingjay was a symbol of rebellions past. Of a revolution that was yet to come. Or at least, that was what Lord Undersee and Earl Heavensby were working towards, before their demise.

"I suppose it does not matter," Haymið said. "You remind me of her, and that makes you precious to me."

"How did you know her?"

"It was my first time to go on the summer raids and I had gotten separated from the other warriors. She found me half dead, and she took care of me. I was never as good a fighter as Finn or Gæl, or their fathers Oddr and Hallvard before them. My strength is in my cunning."

"How long were you... together?"

"Only for one month, just until I was rescued. I wanted her to come back with me to Tolv as my wife, but she did not want to leave her sister."

Margaretha nodded. She was told that her mother was once a high-spirited woman, full of life and vigor. But after Maysilleigh's death, Lady Magthilde became somber and withdrawn, prone to headaches and nightmares. She was never the same again.

"How did she die?" Haymið asked. "Please. I must know."

"She... she was ill for a long time," Margaretha said. "I am sorry, but that is the extent of my knowledge. It pained my mother to speak of her beloved sister's passing."

The grief etched on the jarl's face was something Margaretha could never forget in a hundred years.

"It was not meant to be," Haymið said at last, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"But you have moved on," Margaretha reminded him. "You have a beautiful wife, with whom you have many children." Young children, she realized. Despite herself, her heart went out to Haymið. He had waited for a long time.

The jarl nodded. "Eyfri made me smile when I thought I could never again do so. She and our sons are all I have. I thought I had no regrets until I saw you. You, Maysilleigh's own flesh and blood. I knew I had to take you away from Panym, away from the horrors Peeta had described to me. But out of respect for my wife, I did not want to install you in my own household."

"What if you had been right?" Margaretha dared ask. "What if I were truly your child and Maysilleigh's?"

"Then I would recognize you as mine," he replied. "I would buy you from Gæl and grant your freedom."

"But it was not meant to be," Margaretha said, echoing the words of the man who, in another life, might have been her father.

Haymið reached out and touched her cheek. In his dreams, she would always be his daughter.

"No," he said regretfully. "It was not."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Sufficiently convinced that Margaretha was not pregnant and that Gæl had not made her his bed-slave, Beetee let his apprentice go. Once allowed to take his leave, Gæl immediately sought out the last man he had seen in his thrall's company.

"What did you do?" he demanded. "It was something you did, something you said, that made her so upset."

Thome was pouring himself more ale. "Hello yourself, my friend," he said calmly.

"It was not Thome's fault," Peeta said. "She seemed affected by the news that Anni was having twins."

Gæl glared at Peeta, and the thrall fell silent.

"I am glad you are here, Gæl," Thome said. "I have not seen you for a while, though I do not blame you. If I had your thrall, I would never care for anyone else's company."

"You could have visited us at my home at any time," Gæl replied, struggling to keep his voice even. "You did not need to wait until now to get acquainted with her."

"Haymið forbade the men from approaching you regarding her. He also forbade us from approaching her without other men and women present."

"That is news to me," Gæl said. "But it explains a great many things." He recalled Cato's hateful glare, coupled with the berserker's uncharacteristic silence and inaction, from earlier.

"However, here you are now, approaching me," Thome said. "Therefore I would like to speak to you, as one man to another."

"As one man to another," Gæl said, "speak freely."

Thome drained the contents of his drinking horn and set it down firmly. "I would like to buy her from you. Name your price."

In many ways Gæl expected this—it was only a matter of time—still, it caused him great distress to hear the words from his friend's lips. "Margaretha is not for sale."

"Did Haymið say so?"

"No," Gæl said slowly. "But I made a promise to my sister that I would not send Margaretha away, and that is worth more than any oath sworn to the jarl. Pósy is very much smitten with her."

"So am I," Thome said. "You knew this to be true from the very start."

Gæl nodded. "I am sorry, but I cannot sell her."

"We are good friends, are we not?"

"Aye."

"Then you know I will treat her well. I will free her and marry her. Surely your sister will agree to let her go, if it means her freedom."

"Is it really freedom if it is granted for the purpose of marriage?" Gæl found himself asking. "True freedom means allowing Margaretha to choose whom she wants to marry. Would you still free her, if you knew she would choose another?"

Thome raised an eyebrow. "I did not know you felt so strongly about it. If that is the case, then you should free her yourself, and I shall present myself as a suitor. From the little time we spent talking, I am confident she will return my love."

_How can you be so sure? _Gæl wanted to know, feeling his blood boil. _You have spoken with her for five minutes. I have lived with her for two months, and she is still a mystery to me._

"I told you," he said, trying not to sound like a petulant child, "I made a promise."

"You promised not to send her away. Freeing her does not mean sending her away. By your own definition, freeing her will give her the choice of staying or leaving of her own accord. Therefore, sell her to me as a thrall, or release her so I can win the heart of a freed woman. I do not understand why you are being so difficult."

"You are the one being difficult," Gæl argued. "You cannot tell me what to do with my own thrall. That is none of your business."

Realization dawned in his friend's eyes. "You have had her," Thome accused him.

"I have not!"

"You have taken the virtue I fought to protect." Thome stepped closer until they were almost chest to chest. He was nearly as tall as Gæl.

Gæl was vaguely aware that a crowd had begun to form around them. "Margaretha owes you nothing. Even if I had been the one to save her that day, her virginity would not be mine to take."

"You love her, then," Thome said. "That can be the only reason."

Before he knew what he was doing, Gæl's fist connected with Thome's jaw, fueled by a rage he never knew he was capable of.

Thome touched his face, feeling where the bruise would start to form. He let out a hollow laugh. "Does she know?" he taunted Gæl. "Have you confessed your desire for her?"

When Gæl did not answer, Thome snorted. "I know you, Gæl Hallvardson. We grew up together. I know of all the girls you took to that wrecked ship in the harbor."

"If I recall correctly, that was a favorite pastime of yours as well," Gæl said. "And besides, that was a long time ago."

"That is true," the other man agreed. "That was before Katnisse. It makes one wonder... how would Margaretha feel, knowing she could never compare to Katnisse? That even after you inevitably take her and get her with child, she would always share your heart with another?"

Gæl's vision turned black and for a moment his senses registered nothing but the metallic clang of his sword leaving its sheath.

"Put that away, Gæl," another voice warned. It was Bristl.

Bristl placed one hand on Gæl's chest, the other on Gæl's sword. "It is always entertaining to watch men fight over a woman," he said quietly. "But you are both dear to me, and I do not wish to lose either of you on the day Finn's children are born."

Gæl lowered his sword. "For your sake, I hope I will never see you speaking to Margaretha again," he said, addressing Thome.

Thome's grey eyes glinted. "Ah, but you have caught yourself in a predicament, Gæl. If you keep her as a thrall, you cannot marry her yourself. But if you free her, you know I will be here waiting."

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

I named Gæl's father after Hallvard Vebjørnsson, the patron saint of Oslo, who was martyred while trying to protect a pregnant thrall. Katnisse's father was named after a known skald.

Haymið is younger here than in THG. This takes place 16-17 years after he met Maysilleigh, not 24 years like the interval between Haymitch/Maysilee's Games and Katniss/Peeta's.

The Viking Slag Heap was inspired by and is dedicated to **Solaryllis**. :)

If you were wondering where Hejsel was while Gæl was picking fights, she was with Anni.

I love Thome to pieces, and I swear he's a nice guy, but he is a product of his time and didn't have parents as progressive as Gæl's. Not to mention that, sometimes, a nice guy can turn into a Nice Guy™.

Canon doesn't say whether Bristel is male or female, but **Medea Smyke** imprinted me with male!Bristel in the seminal Gadge fic, _An Extra Dividend_.


	8. Rain

.

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**Rain**

.

A commotion from inside the hall drew Haymið back to the feast, leaving Margaretha outside and alone with her thoughts.

_Imagine if it were true_, she mused_. Imagine if Haymið had been your father, if Maysilleigh had sailed away with him to the North. You would have been born and raised right here in Tolv. You could have become a shieldmaiden like Hejsel used to be, like Katnisse is now. You could have been _friends _with Katnisse. You never had friends in Panym._

Her imagination was running away from her, and she could not bring herself to stop it. _You would not have needed to marry Lord Seneca for protection. You could have fallen in love, real love, by now... with Thome, perhaps, or Finn if he were not such a preener, or maybe even—_

Gæl emerged from the hall, his face red, looking angrier than she had ever seen him. He kept flexing his elbow, shaking his wrist and stretching his fingers as if they pained him.

Margaretha's instincts took over. She stepped out of the shadows, reaching out to still his arm and capture his hand in both of hers. "You are hurt," she said, bringing his knuckles up to her face for a closer look. Even in the darkness, she thought she could see the beginnings of bruising, as if he had punched something—or someone—with all his might.

At first it seemed as if her touch startled him, even frightened him. But then grey eyes met blue, and he relaxed visibly. "It is nothing," he told her, looking down at their joined hands. His was large, tanned from the summer raids, rough and scarred from years of hard labor on the farm and even harder fighting on the battlefield. Margaretha's were tiny in comparison, and so pale they were almost translucent, though much more callused than they had been before she came to Tolv.

"What was going on in there?" Margaretha asked, turning his hand over to inspect his palm.

"There is always some fighting at feasts," Gæl said evasively. "It is to be expected when men have weapons and too much to drink. Some would say it is not a good feast until blood is shed."

"There are times when I think I am starting to understand the ways of the North," Margaretha said, releasing his hand. "Then something like this happens and everything confounds me all over again."

"What happened to you earlier?" Gæl asked, changing the subject. "Did Thome do something to upset you?"

"No, of course not," she assured him. "He was kind to me. He reminds me of the gentlemen back home."

"Does he," Gæl said. It was a statement, not a question.

"He told me you were friends."

"We grew up together."

"That must have been fun," she said, smiling. "I am envious."

Gæl looked at her suspiciously, as if trying to find some hidden meaning in her words. "You were vomiting into the bushes," he reminded her. "Are you ill? Are you—" His eyes widened. "Did your husband get you with child before—before he died?"

"No, nothing like that," she hastened to say. "I was just... overwhelmed. I am not very good in large crowds, and then Anni—" Her voice wavered. "My mother had a twin sister. Both of them are dead. I know this must sound horrible but when I see Anni's babies, I... I am afraid I will just fall apart."

Tentatively, Gæl reached out to her. For a moment Margaretha thought he might touch her face like Haymið had, or press his lips to her hand like Thome had. But he let his arm fall back down his side.

"I know how you feel," he said. "Mother was pregnant with Pósy when Father died. I remember looking at her swollen belly and thinking, how can I ever look at this baby and not remember my father's death? What justice was there in the world, that I would get to know this child and my father would not? And beyond that, how could I ever help my mother raise three young children? I was fourteen years old, and I had never been so terrified in my life."

Margaretha wanted nothing more but to smooth the worry from his creased forehead, but whatever paralyzed him was affecting her too. "Then Pósy was born," she said. "And she changed everything."

Gæl nodded. "Do not be sad. If Anni truly does have twins, they will give you hope, not fear. They will remind you that wherever your mother and aunt are, they are together. They are happy."

She had never thought of it that way.

"Thank you," Margaretha whispered. "Your words are a great comfort to me."

He gave her a crooked smile, and at that moment a half-formed thought chose to complete itself in her mind.

_Maybe even Gæl._

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

On the other side of the wall, the feast continued on, the dull roar of drunken men talking and laughing occasionally interrupted by sudden outbreaks of violence. Not too far away, from inside the jarl's residence, Anni's wails rose and fell like the waves of the sea.

But for the warrior and his thrall, it was as if they were in their own little world.

"It must be so wonderful to have siblings," Margaretha said wistfully. At some point Gæl had tired of standing and decided to sit on the ground, tugging her down next to him. "I was told that my mother and her sister could read each other's minds, feel each other's pain. They could never bear to be apart. And though I have not lived with your family for very long, I can see how much you love Pósy and your brothers. It makes me realize what I have been missing."

"It is not always so easy," Gæl admitted. "Róry used to idolize me. He would follow me around everywhere, do everything I did. Now, he never listens to anything I say. He talks back, turns everything into a joke... I was not like that at his age. It is like he does not respect me."

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Did he start to change when he was... nine years old? Ten?"

The question took Gæl by surprise. He stared at her. "How did you know?"

Margaretha pulled her knees up under her chin and shrugged. "I do not presume to know Róry's thoughts, but... if the way he treats you has changed, it must be because the way _you _treat _him _had changed first. And Hejsel told me that you changed a great deal after your father died. You had to grow up faster, work so much harder. That would have happened when you were fourteen, and Róry was nine."

"I did not want to change," he protested. "I had to, in order to support my family. I could not remain a boy forever. I had to become a man."

"I know that. Róry knows that. That is why I think... I think this is Róry's gift to you."

"The gift of wisecracks and questioning my authority?"

"No," Margaretha said, smiling. "The gift of treating you as his brother. The gift of _letting _you be his brother, and nothing more. To Vik, you are infallible, the courageous warrior who fights in foreign lands and returns with wealth beyond imagining. To Pósy, you are ever so much more than a brother—you are the only father she has ever known. Róry is the only one who truly remembers you as you used to be. Róry understands that you gave up what was left of your childhood, so that he could keep what was left of his. I believe... in his own way, he is trying to lighten your burden. He is trying to tell you that you do not have to be a warrior or a father to him. Everything he needs you to be, you already are."

Gæl's heart lurched in his chest. He thought back to all of his interactions with Róry since the day the longboats brought home their father's dead body, and he knew it was exactly as Margaretha said. "Did he tell you this?"

"No, but I can see in his eyes that he does respect you. He loves you. If I were him, I would feel the same way."

"I... I do not know what to say."

"Say you will try to understand Róry better, instead of immediately assuming he is undermining you."

"_You _understand him," Gæl found himself saying. "You, a stranger. A foreigner. You understood him, better than his brother ever could, without even trying."

Margaretha laughed, twisting a stray curl around her finger self-consciously. "I do try," she corrected him. "I do."

Gæl had a sudden urge to know everything about her, all the thoughts that ran through her head, every desire of her heart.

_You love her_, Thome had said. _That can be the only reason._

"Tell me about your family," Gæl said.

"There is not much to tell," Margaretha whispered, casting her eyes down. "They are dead. I am all that is left of our bloodline."

"The dead live on in the stories that we tell," he said. "Please."

"I have already mentioned my mother and her twin sister. My father"—at this, she hesitated—"my father was Panym's master of coin, and he plotted with the earl to overthrow the mad king."

Margaretha's voice was steady as she told him about the taxes and the human tributes. How her father was betrayed, how she fled in the night to the sanctuary offered by Earl Heavensby, how her parents went up in flames for their treason.

"Lord Seneca and I were betrothed last year to justify my presence in his home. We were married this summer and, well..." She licked her lips. "You know the rest."

Gæl felt as if he should apologize for killing her protectors, but he did not know where to start, and in any case it would not change a thing. "Did you love him?" he asked instead, the question coming out in a rasp. His throat was dry.

"We rarely spoke to each other, though he was always kind to me when we did," she said. "I think… I think he may have loved another."

"And you?" he pressed, feeling light-headed as he did so. How much ale did he have to drink tonight? "Do you—did you love another?" He thought of Thome approaching her, talking to her, kissing her hand and not letting go. His stomach churned.

_You love her_, Thome had said. _That can be the only reason._

Margaretha pressed her lips together and stared off into the distance. After what seemed like an eternity, she shook her head. "I have never been in love. At least, I do not think so. Perhaps my idea of love is very different from the reality of it."

She turned her eyes on him. "What is it like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Being in love," she said matter-of-factly. "Perhaps if you tell me what it feels like, I will recognize it when it happens to me."

"I never said I was in love."

"You did not have to," she told him. "I see the way you look at Katnisse. You are a good match."

Gæl let out a short laugh. "You should have been here two years ago to tell her that."

Margaretha looked at him expectantly. "You have not answered my question."

What _was _it like to love someone? Thus far, love had caused Gæl nothing but pain and disappointment. He tried to remember those early days, the heady rush when he first discovered his feelings for Katnisse, the thrill in his veins whenever he saw her waiting for him in the forest.

"It happened slowly. I started noticing little things about her, started wanting to spend more time with her. Then one day I knew in my heart that I would fight for her. I could die for her. I have heard that others fall in love at first sight, but for me it was like..." He searched his mind for the right words. "Love is like a fine rain that falls little by little, but it falls harder every day, and you do not realize how deep the waters have become until you start to drown."

_You love her_, Thome had said. _That can be the only reason._

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Well, I never," Jó said as their horses slowed down to a stop in front of the jarl's longhouse. "It looks like you and I will not be competing with her for Peeta's attention after all."

Katnisse's ears burned as she dismounted and offered a hand to help Prim do the same. She tried to avoid looking at Gæl and Margaretha, who were sitting together outside the hall—almost in the exact same place where she and Peeta had pored over his drawings earlier that evening—but one glance had been more than enough.

They were not kissing, nor were they locked in an embrace as other couples would have been at this juncture of the feast. In fact, they were not touching at all. But from the way they were talking, paying no heed to what was happening around them, it did not matter. Katnisse could scarcely imagine a scene more intimate, more meaningful, than the one playing out between her best friend and his thrall.

Was this what people used to see whenever they saw her with Gæl, before his proposals drove a wedge into their friendship? Was this what Gæl and Jó saw now, when they saw her with Peeta?

"I never thought Gæl could talk so much," Jó said, shaking her head. "Who knew?"

_I did_, Katnisse thought. She and Gæl used to spend hours in the forest reminiscing about their fathers. It was one of the things she enjoyed so much about their partnership.

"Róry and I had a bet," Prim said, sounding disappointed.

"Whether they would get together or not?" Jó asked.

"No," the younger Eyvindsdottir replied. "Whether it would happen before the first snow, or after."

Jó nearly fell off her horse laughing.

Katnisse and Prim's mother, who had been riding with Jó, was the one who finally addressed what the others did not. "It seems you have gotten your wish," Gísla said, turning to look at her eldest daughter. "I hope you do not come to regret it."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Women _only_!" Eyfri screeched when she opened the door.

"You insult me, Eyfri," Jó said, running a hand through her short, spiky dark hair. "I am sure I am woman enough for anyone."

"No, I did not mean that," the jarl's wife said hastily. "Peeta was here earlier, wanting to help. When you knocked, I thought he had returned. Peeta is such a dear boy, truly a lovely boy, but I am making too many compromises as it is."

She waved them all inside. "Please, everyone, come in. I am so glad you are here, Gísla."

In the North, all families needed knowledge of healing to survive, but none were better known for their skill than Eyvind's wife. Her busiest times were right after the summer raids, when the warriors returned with bones to set, wounds to treat, and dead comrades to mourn.

And then came the day that Eyvind's lifeless body was the one heaped upon the funeral pyres, and a heartsick Gísla retreated from the world.

But the healer always had a soft spot in her heart for Anni, and in a few short strides Gísla was at the younger woman's side. "What is this?" she asked, surprised.

Eyfri threw her hands up in exasperation. "Finnbjorn would not take no for an answer."

Anni was kneeling in the largest wooden tub they could find, her pale face damp with perspiration. Her long, dark hair was loose and in disarray. Hejsel poured warm water continuously down her back; one of Eyfri's thralls sat by the fire, dropping hot stones into a cauldron to boil more water. As for Finn, he knelt outside the tub, clutching his wife's hands.

"Being in the water soothes her," Finn said stubbornly.

Anni nodded weakly.

"Well, it is not traditional, but it cannot hurt," Gísla said. She glanced around the room. "Have all the knots in the house been untied?"

"Yes," Hejsel said. "Finn unknotted them all. It drove him half mad that he was not allowed to tie them back up again."

Gísla patted Anni's anxious husband on the back. "You can tie all the knots you want when this is over. For now, we need to make sure that her womb is similarly free from obstructions."

Anni screamed.

"I am never letting you touch me again," she gasped, gripping Finn's hands tightly as she said so.

"Now, now, let us not say anything we will regret later on," Finn said, kissing her knuckles. "You are doing wonderfully, my love. Just a little more."

When the pain became unbearable and Anni swore she was being cleaved in two, Eyfri and Hejsel helped her out of the tub. Gísla arranged Anni into a squatting position, her arms draped around Finn for support while the healer waited from behind.

In the background, Prim sat offering runes to Frigg and Freyja, while Jó and Katnisse tried to look anywhere else but at Anni.

"Forget my policy of single combat," Jó whispered. "The man who wants to put a child in me will need an introduction from Odin himself."

Katnisse cringed as Anni screamed again. Her fleeting jealousy over Gæl and Margaretha was all but forgotten. Sentimental talks about their fathers, the familiarity of an old friend—none of that would convince her to put herself in Anni's position right now. "Forget love," she whispered back. "Insanity is the only reason I would willingly subject myself to _this_."

Finn yelped as Anni bit down on his shoulder.

"I can see the head," Gísla said suddenly. "Not too long now."

When at last the piercing cry of a newborn rang through the night, Katnisse finally released the breath she did not even know she was holding.

"It is a boy," Gísla announced. "And there is another."

"What did I say?" Eyfri said triumphantly. "Twins!"

"A boy, my love," Finn said, kissing the tears that were streaming down his wife's cheeks. "A boy like Ulf." Ulf was Anni's brother, who was killed by raiders from another village when she was just a young girl. "Please, just a little more. For Ulf. For the twins. For me."

"I am so tired," Anni sobbed. "I cannot do this anymore."

And then Jó was there, rubbing Anni's back and offering words of comfort. "Yes, you can," Jó said tenderly. "You are so brave, Anni. You will be the best mother in the world, I know it."

Jó gestured for Katnisse to join her. "Come here," she mouthed.

Katnisse looked at her sister. "Go," Prim said. "What are you waiting for?"

The archer approached them cautiously. "We are all here for you, Anni," she whispered as she knelt beside the new mother. "Take our strength. Take everything that you need."

Anni's large green eyes filled with gratitude. With Jó holding her right hand, Katnisse holding her left, and Finn embracing her with all that he had, she pushed once more.

"It is a girl," Gísla pronounced, her voice brimming with happiness and relief. "Healthy and whole, like her brother."

Jó and Katnisse broke away from Finn and Anni, so that the new parents might hold their children for the first time. Hejsel handed Finn a knife so he could cut the cords.

"Are you _crying_, brainless?" Jó demanded, sniffling loudly.

Katnisse pawed at her face. "Of course not. Are you?"

"Berserkers do not cry," Jó declared.

They threw their arms around each other and laughed through their tears.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"They are so beautiful," Peeta said in wonder, marveling at these tiny versions of Finn and his wife. "What are their names?"

Anni gave her babies the lightest of kisses, one on each perfect forehead. "The boy shall be called Sægeirr, _sea-spear_, after the weapon that leads his father to victory."

Finn stroked his daughter's rosy cheek. "And the girl shall be called Unna, which means both love and the waves of the sea, two things that brought her mother to me."

Anni had given birth later than expected, giving the twins more time to grow downy hair on their heads while still in her womb. Peeta could already tell that Sægeirr had inherited his hair from his father, whose nickname was Finn the Red, while Unna had Anni's raven locks.

"Would you like to hold them?" Anni asked gently.

Peeta balked. "I am afraid I do not know how. I was the youngest of three, and there were no infants in the monastery."

"There is nothing to fear," she assured him. "Your heart will tell you what to do."

Anni carefully placed Unna in his arms.

"See? You are a natural," Anni said. "You would make a wonderful father."

Peeta opened his mouth to correct her, to say he would never become a father, but the words did not come. For he had never felt as close to heaven as he did in that moment, holding little Unna next to his heart.

He cleared his throat. "Hello, little one," he said. "My name is Uncle Peeta."

She stirred in his arms. Everything about her was so _tiny_—her lips, her nose, her little hands and miniature fingernails. She was nothing short of a miracle.

When Peeta looked up, Finn and Anni were kissing. Slowly, carefully, a perfect balance between contentment and yearning.

He did not notice Katnisse until she was almost upon him. "You look so happy, Peeta," the shieldmaiden observed.

He blushed. "I was just remembering something my brother Josef had said to me, when I was a young boy."

"What was that?" she asked.

Peeta looked down at Unna, then at Finn and Anni, and finally back at Katnisse. "To love another person is to see the face of God."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Gæl kept his hand on the small of Margaretha's back as they entered the jarl's home and wove through the crowd to find the new parents and their children. He told himself he was merely guiding her, helping her navigate an unfamiliar place, knowing that large gatherings frightened her.

Still, he hoped Thome could see them, wherever he was.

"Geilir," Finn's voice boomed. "And the lovely Margaretha. Come, come see the perfection I have created."

"I am sure the perfection came from Anni's side of the family," Gæl deadpanned as he thumped his friend on the back.

Finn grabbed him in a bear hug, lifting the taller man off the ground. "Oh, Geilir, always so in touch with your emotions."

Anni, from her position lying back on the bed, had Margaretha in a similarly affectionate embrace. The men looked on in amusement as the women whispered excitedly in each other's ears. "I cannot believe this is the first time they have met," Gæl said.

Finn grinned. "Babies will do that."

"So where are these perfect babies of yours?" Gæl asked.

"With my two favorite shieldmaidens," Finn chuckled, gesturing to the side.

"Katnisse and Jó?"

"Katnisse and Peeta," Finn hooted, laughing at his own joke.

Gæl turned and, sure enough, there they were—Katnisse and Peeta, carrying a matching set of babies, surrounded by a fawning Prim and Jó. He waited for the familiar prickle of jealousy to come, the one that always came whenever he saw the shieldmaiden and the priest together.

This time, however, it did not.

Anni called out from the bed. "Finn, Margaretha has never held a baby before, either."

"Well, then," Finn said, beckoning to Katnisse and Peeta so that they would come closer. "She is in luck, for not just anyone can say that my children were her first time."

Katnisse carefully passed the sleeping child to the thrall. "This is Sægeirr."

"Oh, Finn," Margaretha whispered. "He looks just like you."

The redhead beamed. "He has my hair."

"I know," she exclaimed. "How precious."

"He would look better with dark hair," Gæl said. "In my opinion."

"Unna has dark hair," Katnisse said, smiling fondly at the baby in Peeta's arms.

Margaretha held Sægeirr closer and inhaled deeply. "Is this the scent that you spoke about, Gæl?"

Gæl leaned in and sniffed the baby's head. "Not quite," he said. "It will grow even sweeter over time."

She sighed happily. "I cannot imagine anything smelling sweeter than this. But I will take your word for it."

"You will know it once you smell it," he promised. "It is a little like fresh milk and butter. It will make you want to hold on and never let go. Of the baby, I mean," he added quickly.

Margaretha kissed Sægeirr's little nose. "You were right, Gæl," she said sincerely. "They give me hope."

A noise on the rooftop caused them all to look up. "What was that?" Peeta asked.

Gæl watched Margaretha coo quietly to the child in her arms. _He would look better with dark hair._

"Rain," he said. It was late in the season, but he was certain. "It has started to rain."

_I love her_.

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

My sources say _Unna _means "love", while _Unnr _means "waves, billowing". So... close enough, I hope. :)

It was hard to find anything definitive about childbirth in the Viking Age, but I did find references to midwives untying knots and loosening saddles to symbolically make childbirth easier. And we all know who likes his knots! Water births were almost certainly not a thing, but I couldn't really picture Anni giving birth/laboring any other way.

The quote attributed to Peeta's brother is, of course, from _Les Misérables_.

The word "deadpan" is a relatively recent invention, but when you think about it, so is modern English. :) Interestingly, _pande_/_panne_/_panna_ means "forehead" in Danish, Norwegian, and Swedish, respectively.


	9. Storm

.

**CHAPTER NINE**

**Storm**

.

_They are in the forest again._

_Peeta watches, entranced, as Katnisse comes to him. Her hair is long and loose, the way it was on the day he found her singing her father's lullaby. It streams behind her like a gossamer veil floating on a gentle breeze. He had always thought her beautiful, but today she is radiant like the sun._

_There is a bundle in her arms: a baby girl with dark hair. He thinks it is Finn and Anni's daughter, Unna, until she opens her sleepy eyes to reveal that they are as blue as a summer sky._

_His heart is so full, he is afraid it might burst._

"_Mine?" he asks softly, even though he already knows the answer._

_Katnisse nods. In her silver eyes, he finds peace. He sees the future. "Ours."_

_And then she kisses him softly, her eyelashes fluttering on his skin like butterfly wings. "Peeta," she breathes. His name on her lips is sweeter than honey. "Peeta."_

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Peeta. Peeta, wake up." Gæl was prodding him with his foot. "It is time to go."

_Not yet, _Peeta thought, struggling against consciousness for a little while longer, clinging to the feeling of Katnisse's lips on his. Alas, it was too late. Even as he desperately grasped at the last wisps of his dream, they were already slipping through his fingers, disappearing through the cracks in his memory.

It was not uncommon for revelers to spend the night in the feasting hall, on account of being too drunk or too tired to make the journey home in the dark, but in this case he had dozed off in Haymið and Eyfri's house. He had fallen asleep sitting down on the ground, leaning against the wall, with a piece of parchment in his hands.

"It is a good drawing," Gæl acknowledged gruffly.

Peeta looked down and traced the strokes of charcoal with his fingertips, the events of last night flooding back to his disoriented mind. The tables groaning under the weight of so much food, mead, and ale at the harvest feast. Katnisse gazing in fascination at the drawings he had brought with him. Anni giving birth to twins. His own rapture at holding little Unna, then her brother Sægeirr, in his arms.

His last memory was that of drawing Katnisse, carrying Unna and glowing with happiness as she did so. By the time he had finally captured the light in her eyes and committed it to parchment, he had been awake for nearly twenty hours, and he had passed out in sheer exhaustion.

Peeta looked up, and looked around. Margaretha was sleeping next to him, as she did every night. The jarl and his family were most likely in their private room. Finn and Anni lay facing each other, with Sægeirr and Unna nestled between them.

His heart leaped when his eyes came to rest on his muse. There she was, not ten feet away from him, sleeping beneath the same roof as him. She was curled up with Prim and Jó. With her jaw unclenched and her guarded expression gone, Katnisse looked youthful, serene, and even lovelier than she had in his dreams.

"You should give it to her," Gæl said. "She will like it."

"You do not mind?"

Gæl paused for the briefest of moments, then shook his head. "Not anymore."

Another memory: Gæl's friend Thome declaring his intention to make Margaretha his wife, and Gæl's unexpectedly hostile reaction.

"About Thome..." Peeta began hesitantly.

"I will be grateful if you do not speak about it to her." Gæl's tone left no room for negotiation.

"I will do as you say," Peeta said. "But I—I want to tell you that I admire what you said about freedom. If Margaretha knew, she would, too. I am glad that she is with you."

The warrior inclined his head ever so slightly in an almost imperceptible nod. There, in that moment, Peeta knew he had gained a new friend.

"My mother is already outside with the cart and the horses," Gæl said. "You should join her."

Peeta glanced at Margaretha. "Shall I wake her?"

"It is all right. Leave it up to me."

Peeta watched as Gæl knelt down and slid one arm under Margaretha's neck, and another under her knees, scooping her up as if she weighed nothing at all. She stirred at Gæl's touch, and for a moment Peeta thought she would awaken. But instead she nuzzled deeper into the warrior's chest, winding her arms around his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Peeta cast his eyes down, feeling not for the first time like an outsider in someone else's story.

He tucked his drawing under Katnisse's hand before leaving.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Katnisse awoke to the sound of babies crying.

"Shh, shh," she heard Finn whisper. "Father is here. Mother is very tired, so let us be quiet and allow her to rest."

For all his boasting and preening, Finnbjorn Oddarson's singular devotion to Anni was well known, and no-one who saw them together could ever doubt their love. Katnisse would not be surprised if Finn, a skillful fisherman and the most highly regarded fighter in Tolv, proved to be an outstanding father as well.

The shieldmaiden's chest tightened as she recalled her own father: the rich baritone of Eyvind's voice as he sung her to sleep, the strength of his shoulders when he hoisted Prim up over the crowds in town, the sparkle in his eyes when he held Gísla close.

The memory filled Katnisse with—envy? Resentment? She had never given love a second thought since she was twelve, when she swore to always rely on herself first, instead of pinning her hopes on some man as she was expected to do. Just last night, she was convinced that marriage and pregnancy and _childbirth _went hand in hand with madness and that nobody, not even Finn or Gæl or her own father, was worth the suffering Anni and countless other mothers before her went through.

But after the twins were born, oh, the joy in Anni's eyes. Katnisse had never seen anyone look more alive.

"It is some sort of unearthly magic," Jó had pronounced. "A spell that babies cast on perfectly reasonable adults, to make them forget about the pain that comes with having children. And it is not only childbirth of which I speak."

Katnisse understood what her friend was trying to say. Jó had been inconsolable when she lost her sister, like Anni was when she lost her brother. Children died every day—of sickness, cold, hunger, violence, or the unpredictable whims of the gods. Even if they survived to adulthood, tragedy still lurked behind every corner. It had come for her father and for Gæl's. If losing her father could cause Katnisse so much grief, what would it be like to lose her own child? Was it not infinitely better to never have something, than to have it for a moment and then lose it forever?

Prim shifted in her sleep, and Katnisse adjusted her own position to accommodate her. As she did so, she heard a faint, vaguely familiar crackling sound under her hand.

Katnisse's mouth fell open when she realized what it was. It was a piece of parchment, a charcoal portrait of her holding one of the twins. There was no question as to the artist: the skill, the exquisite detail, it was unmistakably Peeta's handiwork. But even though it was plain to see that she was the young woman in the drawing, Katnisse did not recognize the smile that seemed to leap off the page. It was not a smile she expected to see on herself. She never thought she could look that... _happy._

Her heart pounded in her ears. _Peeta _had looked that happy; she distinctly remembered commenting on it out loud, then thinking to herself that it would be nice to have Peeta always look that way.

All this time, she had been denying that she was in love with Peeta, but she never once stopped to consider the reverse. Did Peeta love her?

It was not possible. He had sworn an oath to his god. And even if he did, even if she loved him back, it was not as if they could be together.

_It is only a matter of time, I think, _Jó had said, _before Haymið frees Peeta._

No, not even then. The very idea of it was absurd. It was madness. It was... insanity.

_Insanity is the only reason I would willingly subject myself to_ this.

Oh, gods_._

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

At Gæl's house, Peeta's imminent departure had inevitably broached the subject of sleeping arrangements anew.

"Six people should fit nicely in the new house," Hejsel said at the morning meal. "It is bigger than the old house, and it has two rooms besides."

"I do not want to sleep next to Róry again," Vik complained. "He kicks."

Róry scowled in response. "I only kick because you keep rolling over like a log going down a hill. In any case, there would be more space if Gæl were to share his room. It is hardly fair for five people to squeeze into the main room, while he gets the other one to himself."

"I know who should share Gæl's room," Pósy declared confidently.

Gæl's eyes flickered towards Margaretha. "Pósy, I told you—"

"Me!" the little girl crowed.

"Oh," Gæl said. Margaretha thought she could detect the slightest hint of disappointment in his tone. "Well, in that case."

"Whom did you think she was referring to, Gæl?" Róry asked sweetly.

Margaretha's cheeks were pink at the implication, but she silently shook her head, as if urging the eldest Hallvardson to remain calm. _Remember what we talked about._

Once again, it was Hejsel who came up with the solution. "Margaretha, Pósy, and I will stay in the private room," she resolved. "You boys will stay in the main room."

Everyone nodded their assent, and nothing more was said.

Yet for the rest of the day, Margaretha could not help wondering if Gæl had truly been disappointed at Pósy's answer. A traitorous voice inside her head told her that she, for one, was.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"I am going to miss you a great deal," Margaretha whispered to Peeta, the night before he returned to the jarl's household.

She reached her hand out to him across the bedstraw. Peeta accepted, squeezing it firmly. "I will miss you, too. I am glad that we came to be friends."

"You were my first friend in Tolv," she told him. "Perhaps my first friend in the world. I do not know what I will do without you."

The young man chuckled. "If you need more language lessons, Róry will be more than happy to assist."

"It is not just that," she said. "I will miss our talks at night, like the one we are having right this moment. The stories about your brothers, about coming to the North… your thoughts about God and your philosophies, they all fascinate me so. Even in Panym, I did not have anyone I could talk to the way I could talk to you."

"You lie," he teased, wiggling their interlocked fingers. "I saw you at the feast with Gæl. The two of you were deep in conversation for hours. And these past few days, you have spent more and more time together. He actually _smiles _so much now, I can barely recognize him. The children have noticed how much he has changed. Pósy looks like she is going to explode with joy."

Peeta did not have to look at Margaretha to know that a blush was creeping up her cheeks. "That is different," she said. "That is Gæl."

"What does 'that' mean?" he wondered aloud. "Please, enlighten me."

"You know what I mean," she said. "He is my master. That makes all the difference."

Peeta sighed. "I suppose."

"You sigh," Margaretha said. "That means you are thinking of Katnisse."

He thought of denying it, but there was no use. "Am I truly that transparent?"

"Yes," she replied, smiling. "But it seems that you have finally admitted it to yourself, so that is progress."

"And have you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you admitted it to yourself?"

"What is there to admit?"

"Gæl," Peeta said simply. "You love Gæl."

"I enjoy our conversations," she said. "He has many opinions that interest me, and many amusing stories. I respect how hard he has worked to support his family. But everyone knows that he loves Katnisse. If you are hoping that I could tear him away from her, you are mistaken."

Peeta wished he had never made that promise to Gæl in the first place. He withdrew his hand and sighed again. "Let us not argue about this, Margaretha."

"I am sorry," she said softly. "I did not want to argue about it. You took me by surprise, and I became defensive."

"It is of no importance. If you say you do not love Gæl, then I shall believe you."

It was not until much later, as he was falling over the precipice between awake and asleep, that Peeta realized Margaretha had not actually answered his question.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

The next day, Róry offered to bring Peeta back to the jarl's house, and so the monk bid goodbye to Margaretha, Gæl, and Gæl's family.

Peeta waited until they were well out of earshot before he turned to Róry. "All right. Where are we going?"

"What do you mean?" Róry asked innocently from where he was seated on his mother's horse. "I volunteered to bring you to Haymið, and that is where I shall take you. I have no ulterior motives."

"I was thirteen years old myself, not too long ago," Peeta reminded him. He rode in the cart with his meager belongings. "I never volunteered for anything that did not benefit me in some way. There is always an ulterior motive."

"I suppose we could make a quick detour to visit Prim," Róry mused.

"You always visit Prim," Peeta pointed out. "You have never thought to bring me along."

"That is because my brilliant idea did not present itself until the night before," Róry said smugly.

"And what, pray tell, is this brilliant idea?"

"Their mother is visiting Anni today, but Katnisse watches Prim like a hawk," Róry explained. "But if you were there... she might not, and Prim and I would have some semblance of privacy."

Peeta groaned. "_Róry_. Were you eavesdropping on my conversation with Margaretha last night?"

"Of course I was," Róry said easily. "Do not worry, those secrets are safe with me. But, speaking of which, thank you. There is a bet that I think I shall be winning very soon."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

After her moment of clarity just days before, Katnisse did not expect to see Peeta again so quickly. Nor did she expect that it would take place in her own home, while she was surrounded by a multitude of dead birds.

It was not the most romantic of scenarios.

Nevertheless, the sight of the handsome blond priest caused a quickening of her pulse and—if she were to be completely honest—in her womb. Peeta smiled shyly at her, seemingly unperturbed by the scene.

"Róry!" Prim cried, jumping up to greet Gæl's younger brother. Almost immediately, she sagged downwards, her legs giving way after hours of sitting. She and Katnisse had been hard at work all day, plucking feathers and down off geese that had been boiled in water.

The dark-haired boy caught her by the waist before she landed on the ground. "I knew you were falling for me," he joked, kissing Prim on the cheek.

Prim blushed prettily. Katnisse scowled, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. Gæl's friend Bristl had called it the legendary Hallvardson woman-luck. She was glad that she herself never fell prey to it.

As for Prim, the younger Eyvindsdottir had carried a small but steady torch for Róry since she was ten years old. When it was decided that he would be staying with her and her mother over the summer, while Katnisse and Gæl went pillaging together for the first time, the prospect of spending every waking moment with Róry was almost enough to distract Prim from the very real possibility that her beloved sister would not return from the raids.

"Peeta is going back to the jarl's house," Róry said. "We thought it would be nice to visit our favorite girls along the way."

"We will not stay for very long," Peeta said. Katnisse noted that he did not dispute Róry's designation of the Eyvindsdottirs as their favorite girls. "Right, Róry?"

"Why not?" Katnisse found herself asking. She cursed herself immediately afterwards. Why did she always go against what other people said?

Peeta looked surprised. "Well... we do not want to impose. And Haymið is expecting me."

"You have plenty of time," Katnisse said. An idle comment from conversations past resurfaced in her mind. "You promised to make me your famous lamb stew."

Out of the corner of her eye, Katnisse saw Prim and Róry exchange a meaningful look.

"Yes," Peeta said slowly. "Yes, I did."

"It is settled, then," Katnisse said. "You shall stay."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Hours passed, and still there was no sign of Róry. Margaretha peered nervously out the door, glancing up at the skies where ominous clouds had gathered on the horizon. "Should we be worried that he is not yet back?" she asked Hejsel anxiously.

"If I know my son, he has taken this opportunity to visit Prim," Hejsel told her. "I would not trouble myself about it."

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Margaretha was moving her belongings to the room Gæl had previously claimed as his own when the rain started to fall.

"Vik!" she heard Hejsel exclaim from the main room. "Look at yourself!"

"I was rushing to get out of the rain," Vik explained. "I slipped and fell."

_I should see if there is anything I can do to help, _Margaretha thought as she put a bundle of her clothes down on the sleeping platform.

As it happened, the precise moment that she turned to leave was also the precise moment that Gæl barreled into the room, his clothes soaking wet.

A squeak escaped from her lips as she crashed into him. But Gæl had quick reflexes, and he grasped her shoulders to steady her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Her hands, which Margaretha had held up to shield herself from impact, had landed flat on his chest upon their collision. She could feel the beating of his heart through his shirt. She realized what she was doing and rapidly pulled away.

"Yes," she managed to say. This had happened once before at the harvest feast, before they went outside and she vomited into the bushes. But they had not been alone in a bedroom, and Gæl did not look the way he did now—water dripping from his brow, his shirt plastered to his lean torso and leaving next to nothing to the imagination.

_Silly girl, _she scolded herself. _It is just Gæl. _She tried not to think of what Peeta had said the night before, or yesterday morning's entire discussion over sleeping arrangements.

"I should go," she blurted out, and turned to leave.

She was almost out the door when he called after her. "Wait," he said, his voice muffled. "Come back. I need you."

Margaretha cursed herself for her inability to resist those words. She turned again, and nearly fainted at the sight.

"Help," Gæl said. "I seem to be stuck."

He sounded apologetic, but Margaretha could not check his facial expression to be certain. That was because he had started to pull his shirt off, but could not get it past his shoulders. The result was that his arms were trapped above his head, and his face was lost somewhere in a sea of wool.

"Sit down," she ordered him, trying to ignore the broadness of his chest, the hard ridges of his stomach. The fascinating way his muscles responded to even the slightest movement. "You are too tall for me to reach over your head."

He retreated blindly until the edge of the sleeping platform touched the back of his knees. He sank down obediently, careful not to sit too far back and get water on the bedstraw.

"Why are you wearing one of Róry's shirts?" Margaretha wanted to know, acutely aware of the heat emanating from his body as she positioned herself in front of him. She put her hands on her hips, trying to form a plan of attack. "You know they are too small for you."

"It has been raining for the past few days," he replied. "I have run out of larger shirts. Would you rather that I went shirtless?"

Margaretha felt her face flame at the thought as she struggled to yank the sleeves of Róry's shirt off Gæl's arms.

"Pull it up at the sides," he suggested. "Under the arms."

She swore under her breath.

"Did you just call me a stinkfart?"

"Of course not," she lied.

"Yes, you did. I heard you."

"Then why did you ask?"

"I wanted to see if you would admit it."

For some reason this infuriated her even more. "Do you want my help or not?"

"Yes. I apologize. I will behave myself."

Margaretha moved closer, planting one leg between his knees for better support. She used her fingertips to work the sides of the shirt up slowly, gently, inching it higher and higher.

Gæl yelped as her nails scraped the side of his ribcage. "It tickles."

"You are such a big baby," she chided him.

She continued in this fashion until at last she managed to get the shirt past his broad shoulders. Once that was accomplished, Gæl bent over and she helped him shuck the rest of the shirt off. When at last he emerged, his face was flushed and his hair was tousled in a way that made Margaretha's mouth dry.

Now that the task was done, Margaretha realized how this would look to others. The warrior, naked from the waist up and drenched from the rain, sitting on the edge of the sleeping platform. His thrall, holding his wet shirt in her hands, standing with her legs between his knees.

She wobbled slightly, and he reached out to steady her. Even through multiple layers of clothing, the feeling of his hand on her hip was enough to set her on fire.

In the end, Gæl was the one who broke the silence. "Thank you for undressing me," he said with an impish grin. "It seems I have the rain to thank for that."

Margaretha stepped back and tried her best to look at him with disdain. "I am not going to help you with your breeches," she snapped, "so do not even think about it."

"By saying it, you have guaranteed that I will think about it," Gæl protested, his eyes lighting up merrily.

She tossed the wet shirt in his face and fled.

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

Realistic drawing styles, the use of light and shadow, perspective, etc. were known in antiquity, but we associate it most with the art of the Renaissance. Either way, I like to think that Peeta is always ahead of his time, no matter what universe he's in. :)

Finn's father was named Oddr, which was another word for "spear" or, specifically, "spear-point". From what I understand of Old Norse grammar, this would form the patronym Oddarson.

In the Viking Age, most people slept on raised wooden platforms or benches that were built against the wall. For warmth and comfort, they used bedding made of straw and covered with linen, wool, or fur. There is also some mention of cushions stuffed with feathers and/or down. _Doona_, the Australian term for comforter/duvet, traces its origins to _dúnn, _the Old Norse word for down.

Is it bad that I'm already daydreaming of stories featuring Sægeirr, Unna, the Everlark toastbabies, and a small army of Gælsons and Gælsdottirs?


	10. Spark

.

**CHAPTER TEN**

**Spark**

.

Katnisse did not yield when Róry suggested that she and Peeta cook the evening meal, while he took Katnisse's place with Prim.

"Between the two of us, Prim is the better cook," the shieldmaiden reasoned. "Therefore it is only right that she learn the secrets to his lamb stew."

And so Peeta and Prim set to work, preparing the food while Róry helped Katnisse with the geese. Once they finished collecting the feathers and the down, and set the birds aside for skinning and preserving, the older Eyvindsdottir crooked her finger at Róry to follow her outside.

"You are up to something, Róry Hallvardson," Katnisse accused him, once she was certain Prim and Peeta could not overhear. "Out with it."

"I would never dare hide anything from you, Katnisse," Róry replied, his handsome face open and honest. "I came here today for the same reason I have always come here before. Your sister has my heart, and every so often I must visit it and her."

She narrowed her eyes at him: this younger, leaner, beardless version of Gæl. "Today, you have brought the priest." She could not trust herself to say Peeta's name.

"Only because I was tasked to bring him safely back to the jarl's house," Róry said. "You were the one who made him stay."

An idea presented itself to Katnisse, making her sick to her stomach. "Do not dare ask me for her hand in marriage today," she hissed. "Our mother is not here, and you and Prim are far too young besides. If you think I can be convinced to say yes, because—because you have brought _him_—"

"You know that it is not unheard of to marry at this age," he interrupted her. "Nevertheless, you have nothing to fear. I wish to wait until after I go on the raids—until I have my own silver with which to pay her bride-price. Perhaps in three years' time, I can come to you and your mother with a proper proposal."

"You speak of raiding as if it were so easy," Katnisse said bitterly. "Do not forget that I am a shieldmaiden. Unlike you, I know firsthand what it is like to be on the battlefield. One moment you are alive, the next moment you are dead."

Róry looked at her with surprise. "Are you saying that Prim and I should not marry, in case I die in the raids?"

"Do you not remember when your own father died? How it broke your mother's heart? Prim is not as strong as Hejsel. She is like our mother, delicate and fragile. If anything happens to you, I will lose Prim too."

"If I die in the raids, or any other way, it will not matter whether Prim and I were married or not. Whatever she will feel, she will feel just the same." Róry placed his hands on the shieldmaiden's shoulders. _When had he grown so tall?_ Katnisse wondered.

"Forgive me, Katnisse, but I must speak freely. You talk as if there is nothing else to life but death. You are so afraid of losing the people you love, that you are afraid to love more than you think you can afford to lose."

"It is a wise policy."

"It is a lie. You can no more limit love, than you can tell your heart to beat only upon your command. You cannot stop yourself from loving. You can only deny yourself—and the people you love—the happiness of it."

Katnisse fell silent, and the image of a certain young Saxon man filled her mind in the space where coherent thoughts were supposed to be. It was becoming an increasingly frequent occurrence.

Finally, she said: "Not too long ago, you were a gangly nine-year-old with a runny nose and breeches trailing halfway down your leg. Now you tower over me, and you lecture me about love."

Róry grinned broadly and swooped down to kiss her forehead, making Katnisse wince. "Dear sister, I am only giving voice to what you already know in your heart to be true."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

To Katnisse, food had always been a necessity, nothing more. Not long ago, she had spent almost every waking moment worrying about it, and for good reason: if the crops failed, or if they did not preserve the meat and the milk properly, her family might not survive the winter. A single misstep could cost them their lives. Even after she became a shieldmaiden, receiving her share of the booty and earning a place at the warriors' table at the harvest feast, food was still so synonymous with hardship that she could not bring herself to enjoy it.

That is, until she tasted Peeta's lamb stew.

"I have never eaten anything better," Katnisse declared, holding her plate out for a second serving after she had inhaled the first.

Prim and Róry were eyeing her nervously. "Slowly, Katnisse," Róry cautioned. "Take your time."

"You should know, Peeta, that Katnisse never eats like this," Prim told the priest as he ladled out more stew. "Eating is a chore for her like everything else. This is a compliment of the highest order."

"Where did you learn to cook this?" the shieldmaiden demanded, even as she wolfed down another mouthful. He could not have learned it from Eyfri. As skilled as the jarl's wife was, Katnisse had not tasted anything like this stew at any of the feasts in recent memory.

"In Panym," the young Saxon replied. "But it was here that I had the opportunity to hone my skills. As it was, Eyfri did not let me cook until just this spring, when her other thralls fell ill."

"The bread he bakes is even better," Róry informed her. "He can make it hearty and dense, or soft and light as a cloud. And whatever kind of bread Peeta makes, when you eat it with the cheese that Margaretha invented… it is a wonder that my family and I are still able to walk."

"Thank you," Peeta said humbly. "I am glad that the food we prepare can give you happiness."

He really was handsome when he blushed.

"I feel like every time I see you, I learn something new about you," Katnisse said. "You cook, you bake, you draw…"

"And you are good at every single one of those things," Prim remarked. "The drawing you made of Katnisse and Unna is beautiful. It makes me wonder what else we do not yet know about you."

Róry's eyes lit up. "I know something you do not know about Peeta."

Peeta looked at him, horrified. "Róry…"

But the thirteen-year-old carried on. "I have spent two months in very close quarters with him, you see, and he would tell me and Margaretha many interesting things about his life in Panym."

"Please do tell," Prim said, smiling.

Róry leaned forward, grinning deviously. "Before Peeta was a priest... he had a sweetheart."

Prim gasped in genuine shock. Katnisse felt as if her heart had dropped like a millstone to the bottom of the sea.

"Is this true?" the older Eyvindsdottir asked, not recognizing her own voice.

"Yes," Peeta said quietly. "You know my story, Katnisse. I told you I was not supposed to be given to the church. It was only when the king's men took my brother away that I was sent in his place."

Katnisse could not stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. "What was her name?"

"Delly," he answered. "Her name was Delly."

Still Katnisse plied him with questions. What was Delly like? Blonde hair. A plump, womanly figure. How did they meet? Her family owned the farm next to theirs. How did she react to the news that Peeta would be sent to the monastery in Josef's stead? Not very well. They always thought they would marry someday.

"Did you kiss her?" Katnisse dared ask. She was afraid of the answer.

"Katnisse…" Prim said uncertainly.

"Yes," Peeta said, looking Katnisse in the eye. "I did."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

He _craved _her.

It surprised Gæl to discover just how much he wanted Margaretha. Like Thome, Bristl, and the other young men he had grown up with, Gæl had spent many an idle hour at that wrecked ship in the harbor with whichever girl had been willing at the time. Gæl always enjoyed himself—truth be told, the time he spent there was what piqued his interest in ship building, and what prompted him to petition his father for an introduction to Beetee—but none of the girls became anything more than a passing fancy. When Hallvard died, and Gæl took on the responsibilities he had left behind, he did not mind that he had fewer opportunities for such things. Besides, he had his hands full helping raise and provide for Róry, Vik, and Pósy; until he went on the raids, he could not afford a wife and child of his own.

Perhaps as recompense for that part of his past, the gods saw fit for him to fall in love with Katnisse—stoic, no-nonsense Katnisse. He knew his old ways would not work on his best friend, so he went through what he thought were the proper channels: a marriage proposal, a house, a bride-price. After all, Katnisse was nothing if not practical; Gæl assumed she would appreciate his efforts in that regard. And yet she would not be swayed.

So now, faced with the realization that his heart was held captive by his thrall, Gæl was determined to do things differently. After all, by her own admission, Margaretha had never been in love before. He did not want her to run away from him, afraid, when he finally told her. Gæl wanted to win Margaretha's love little by little, the same way she had unknowingly won his: by seeping into his every pore until his entire being was consumed by her.

First he needed her to know that he thought of her as a person, not a prize: that he admired her innate compassion, her perceptive mind, her quiet determination. Everything else could wait until later.

_When I free her,_ Gæl thought, _I want Margaretha to know she has the freedom to choose. And when that happens, I want her to choose me over Thome—and over anyone else for that matter—not because I am the only man she has ever known in the past, but because I am the only man with whom she wants a future._

If he could win her heart this way, by wooing her patiently, earnestly, steadily, it was his hope that everything else _would_ follow later.

But right now, oh, how he _craved_ her.

Of course, Gæl had only himself to blame. By virtue of his creative maneuvering of everyone's chores—and Hejsel's tacit approval thereof—he and Margaretha had more cause to spend time together in the days after the harvest feast and Peeta's departure. They developed an easy companionship, and soon Gæl found himself challenging Margaretha on purpose just so he could draw out that fierce side of her that refused to give way when she knew she was in the right.

When Margaretha told Gæl one day, out of the blue, that her dreams the night before had been in Norse, he knew he had gained her trust, and he knew she had come to regard the North as her home. It made him even more determined to prove himself worthy of that trust.

But the desire was always there: pooling, growing in his belly, waiting for a spark to ignite the flame.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Though he tried his best to avoid it—and generally succeeded—there were times that he could not help but reveal, ever so slightly, how much he wanted her.

The time, of course, when he ran into the house out of the pouring rain, the time she had fallen right into his arms in what he hoped would soon be their bedroom.

It had all happened so fast. One moment, he was outside, letting the rain soak him to the bone, thinking about his father the way he always did in a thunderstorm.

"_Do not be afraid, my son," Hallvard said to Gæl when the little boy hid his face in his father's shirt._

"_But the thunder is so loud, and the lightning destroys everything it strikes," young Gæl whispered, sniffling._

_Hallvard stroked the riotous mass of dark hair on his son's head. "What is thunder? It is the rage of Thor as he strikes down the jotuns and the trolls. What is lightning? It is the sparks flying from Sindri's anvil as he forges the finest weapons in Asgard. It is the flashing hooves of the goats drawing Thor's cart into battle; his shining hammer Mjolnir flying across the sky. Be brave, and be glad, for in the storm you bear witness to the power of the gods."_

The next moment, Gæl was sitting down on the sleeping platform, Margaretha's fingertips trailing fire across his bare skin.

He had been unable to see, unable to move his arms, as she undressed him. Not knowing exactly what she was doing, or what she was about to do, only heightened the sensation. He forced himself to make conversation, to distract himself from the way she made him feel, but even his light-hearted banter hinted at something more.

"Would you rather that I went shirtless?" he asked at one point, trying to sound indignant. In his mind she was pushing him down onto his back and covering his hungry mouth with hers.

"I am not going to help you with your breeches," she snapped later on, when at last she had freed him from the shirt that bound him. "So do not even think about it."

It was all he could think about.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Or the time, more recently, when Gæl questioned Margaretha's knowledge of fire-starting—a basic skill she had learned from Peeta long ago.

"You are using the wrong striking-stone for that fire-steel," Gæl told her, rummaging around their household implements. The rains had gone, the skies had cleared, and the days were growing shorter and colder.

"It lights the fire just the same," Margaretha pointed out. "What is the difference?"

Gæl found what he was looking for and held it up for her to see. "This striking-stone was made especially for that fire-steel. See the groove that runs down the middle? It is exactly the right size, and as time passes they come to fit each other better still. Without each other, they can light a fire, but they are not whole."

Margaretha snatched it out of his hands. "I did not know you were so pedantic about fire-steels and striking-stones."

"If you were not taught how to use the correct striking-stone, what is my assurance that you know how to use a fire-steel at all?" Gæl wanted to know.

"Perhaps the fact that I have been starting fires for months without mishap?" she countered hotly. "It was one of the very first things Peeta taught me."

He shook his head gravely. "This will not do. I shall have to teach you all over again."

And that was how Gæl came to be wrapped around Margaretha from behind, his chin hovering just above her sweetly scented shoulder, his hands guiding hers as she struck the fire-steel and the striking-stone together.

Her back was rigid against him at first, and her fingers stiff underneath his, but the fire-starting lesson gave her something else to focus on and soon he felt her relax. "This is exactly the same as Peeta's technique," she said stubbornly as the sparks flew into a small nest of flax that served as tinder. "Just… taught differently."

Gæl let go of her hands so that he could lift the flax. He blew gently on the embers until they burst into flames, causing Margaretha to lean further back into his chest and clutch at his thigh.

It would be easy, so easy, to turn his head and kiss her right then, to lift her hair and press his lips to the base of her throat where her lifeblood pulsed underneath the skin. To allow the flax to fall away, forgotten, and let the house catch fire while they made love among the flames.

_Wait_, he told himself. _Everything else can wait._

"I am not like Peeta," Gæl said, shaking his head to clear the visions from his mind. "I think by now that should have been clear."

Did she grasp what he was trying to say? Gæl held his breath, waiting for her to turn around and slap him in the face, waiting for her to stand up and run, the way she did on the day of the thunderstorm.

But Margaretha did not answer. They watched in silence as the fire they built together grew.

It was not until Pósy came in later to look for her dolls that Margaretha pulled away.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Gæl had always been in her dreams.

Margaretha remembered when she first came to Tolv: how she sought freedom from captivity, or at least respite from exhaustion, in her sleep. But instead of memories of the mother and father she loved, or of the gentle life she had taken for granted in Panym, there had been nothing but shadows of Gæl floating in and out of her subconscious, his eyes dark with displeasure, his posture unbending and uncompromising.

Perhaps it was Peeta's words echoing in her mind, or her envy at the happiness Finn and Anni found in each other, or the fact that Gæl had become an altogether more agreeable person after apologizing for the cheese incident and even more so after the harvest feast, but lately her dreams had been changing. Now there was a shape and flow to them; stories were told and words were spoken. But the one constant was Gæl.

And because they were growing closer by the day, Margaretha nearly told him about it. It was only at the last second that she caught herself and instead told him that in her dreams, she was speaking Norse.

It was true, of course. Margaretha could not pinpoint when, exactly, the change had taken place. All she knew was that one day she realized with a start that her thoughts, her dreams, even her nighttime conversations with Peeta when he was still living with them, were all in the language that had once seemed so foreign to her.

This much, she could reveal to Gæl without hesitation.

Margaretha did not tell Gæl that in her dreams, he had confessed that he loved her, and she had confessed that she loved him back.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Someone was calling her name.

Margaretha opened her eyes to find Pósy kneeling by her side, shaking her shoulder. "Pósy?" she said sleepily. "What is going on?"

The dark-haired girl had a smile so wide, her little face could barely contain it. "They are here, Margaretha. Come look."

"Who?"

Pósy leaned in, as if to whisper a secret. "The merry dancers. Hurry, hurry, before they get away."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

It was like stepping into the most delicious, most wondrous dream. Curtains of green and purple light undulated across the pitch black of the night sky, bathing the world in an ethereal glow. Ribbons of color twisted and curled above her and around her all at once, fading into the darkness one moment and then flickering back to life the next.

Pósy ran past her, straight to Gæl, whereupon she jumped and flew into her brother's arms. A little further away, Róry and Vik were galloping across the field, howling in glee.

Margaretha pulled her cloak tighter around her body. "I have never seen anything like this," she said to Hejsel, her breath coming out in white puffs of steam. "What is happening?"

"They are called the northern lights," the older woman said, smiling wistfully at her children gamboling about. "They appear from late autumn to early spring, but only on the clearest and darkest of nights. In the past few years I have seen them very rarely, so to see them so brightly tonight is quite a pleasant surprise."

"They are so beautiful, I cannot believe they are real," Margaretha said in awe. "What causes them?"

"Sometimes we tell the children they are women dancing merrily in the sky," Hejsel said. "The people to the East say they are fires, sparked by the tail of a fox flying across the night. The explanation I prefer is that they are the gleaming lights of Valhalla, reflecting off the shields of the valkyries as they return with the spirits of warriors who died valiantly in battle."

Gæl walked over to the women, Pósy dangling upside down from his arms and giggling uncontrollably. "I have caught a naughty little girl," he said. "She is not allowed to leap about with the merry dancers."

Pósy pulled herself right side up and wriggled out of his grasp. "Then I will dance with Margaretha instead!" she proclaimed, sticking her tongue out at him as she grabbed the thrall's hands.

Margaretha laughed in delight as she skipped and twirled in concert with Pósy. They danced right up to Róry and Vik and, linking hands with the boys, began prancing around in a circle.

Hejsel entwined her arm with Gæl's and rested her head on his shoulder. "The children love Margaretha dearly," she observed. "I am glad she is part of our household. Do you not agree, my son?"

Instead of answering, Gæl looked at his mother and grinned in a mischievous way she had not seen since Hallvard was alive. "Let us join them."

Hejsel barely had time to register what he meant before he started walking, tugging her behind him, to where the children were.

"Gæl is not allowed to dance with us!" Pósy whined.

"I am not Gæl," her eldest brother said in the deepest voice he could muster. "I am… the tickle monster!"

He bared his teeth and lunged forward, attacking Vik with his fingers.

"Stop stop stop _stop_!" Vik half-yelped, half-laughed as the others fell upon him.

Later, when they were all sprawled on the ground, Róry propped himself up on his elbows and regarded Gæl critically. "Just last winter, you said you were too old for this," he reminded the eldest Hallvardson. "You said _I_ was too old for this."

Gæl responded by grabbing Róry's head and rumpling his hair. "I am never too old to beat you up, you… you stinkfart."

"Boys! Language!" Hejsel's tone was sharp, but there was laughter in her eyes.

After a while, when the six of them were spent and their shrieks had subsided, Margaretha rolled over onto her back to catch her breath. As she gazed upon the lights weaving in and out of the darkness, her heart was filled with an overwhelming sense of… contentment. Belonging. Happiness.

She had never felt lonely in Panym, even though she did not have siblings or cousins, or even a playmate who stayed long enough to become her friend. She had her spying, her mysteries to keep her occupied. It was not until she came to Tolv that she realized how much she had been missing. With Hejsel and her children, it was almost as if she had a family again—one that was bigger and more affectionate than she could ever have imagined.

Gæl loomed above her, blocking her view of the sky. Wordlessly, he held his hand out to her.

Cheeks rosy from the crisp night air, Margaretha accepted. His touch sent a shiver up her spine she was sure had nothing to do with the cold.

Her hand looked so small, so pale in his. Gæl gripped it tightly as he helped her up, lingering for the briefest of moments before letting go.

Hejsel clapped her hands. "I think we have had too much fun tonight. Time to go back to bed."

"I am not sleepy yet," Róry complained. "Can I go to Prim's? It is light enough," he added hopefully.

"No," his mother said firmly. "Go back inside."

When Margaretha turned to leave, however, Hejsel put her hand up to stop her. "Not you, my dear," she said kindly. "You can stay a while longer if you like. After all, it is your first time."

Margaretha nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Hejsel."

Hejsel smiled. "Gæl will keep you company."

"Oh, that is not necessary—" she protested.

"I am happy to stay," Gæl said.

Hejsel herded the children back into the house, Pósy and Vik whispering to each other excitedly.

"Keep warm," Róry said, winking as he sauntered past.

When the door to the house closed, leaving Margaretha and Gæl alone at last, she did not know what to say or do.

It was Gæl who broke the deafening silence. "Do you not have the lights in Panym?"

Margaretha shook her head regretfully. "No. I have never seen anything like them, nor did my parents ever speak of anything so wonderful." She felt sadness wash over her at the memory of Lord Undersee and Lady Magthilde. _Mother, Father, I miss you so,_ she thought. _I have done as you asked. I have been brave, and now I am safe. I only wish you were here, watching the lights dance across the sky with me._

"You are in luck," Gæl said. "Tonight was the brightest I have seen them since—" His breath caught in his throat. "Since the year Father died."

"Hejsel told me that the lights are the valkyries, returning to Valhalla with the spirits of fallen warriors," Margaretha said. "Perhaps the valor of the warrior has something to do with the brilliance of the lights."

He gazed at her, his grey eyes softer and yet more intense than she had ever seen. "Is that really what you believe?"

"It is true that I have never met your father," she admitted. "But you can often take the measure of a man by looking at the character of his children." Hearing the words that had just issued from her lips, Margaretha felt her face grow warm.

Gæl cocked an eyebrow in amusement. "His children… including me?"

She scowled. "No, I meant your siblings exclusively. Of course I am also referring to you. Wipe that smirk off your face," she chastised him.

His grin widened, making him look like a little boy.

"For all your positive attributes, you… you are the most stubborn man that ever lived," she declared.

Something changed in his eyes. "That is exactly what my mother says," Gæl said slowly, all traces of mirth gone, "about my father."

"Well," Margaretha said quickly, as if to gloss over the significance of his words, "that only goes to show how much you are like him."

"I am not sorry," he said suddenly, taking a step towards her.

"Sorry about what?" she asked.

Another step. She was finding it hard to breathe; he was so close. Although he was not touching her, she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the scent of the forest that he always had about him.

His fingers burned her skin when he tilted her chin, and she saw the green and purple hues of the northern lights reflected in his silver eyes. "I am not sorry I killed your husband," he told her. "I am not sorry I killed the man who laid claim to you."

His nose brushed hers and it was all Margaretha could do not to melt into his strong arms. "Then you have killed the wrong person," she whispered, her breath swirling and merging with his. "You are the only man who has ever laid claim to me."

"Am I?"

"Yes, you—"

Gæl did not let her finish.

Margaretha had been kissed but once before, a chaste kiss on her wedding day that was over as soon as it had begun. It was nothing like _this_. Gæl's mouth was hot against hers, sending tremors through her body from her lips all the way down to her core. He was not kissing her so much as tasting her, drinking her, _consuming_ her, making her part of him. When he pulled her close, she arched into him with an urgency she had never before known. How was it possible to feel this way? Weak at the knees, but stronger, braver, more powerful than she could ever dream of being. Drowning and burning, falling and soaring, all at the same time, all because of _him_.

_He is everything._

_He is home._

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

I always thought Everlark would happen first, but Gadge had the benefit of already living together.

A special shoutout to **NurseKelly**, who asked for a Gæl POV on last chapter's shirtless scene, and who provided valuable feedback on the first kiss.

The last scene has been in my head ever since I saw the northern lights with Mr. DDG :) I imagine Tolv to be around the same latitude as Reykjavík, Trondheim, and Umeå, where one could see the aurora borealis occasionally, given enough solar flare activity and plenty of dark, cloudless nights.

Sami children were taught to behave themselves in the presence of the northern lights (not like this unruly lot, LOL). As for striking-stones, nowadays people just use any old knife with a fire-steel. Gæl just wanted an excuse to get handsy. :P

In Norse lore, Sindri ("spark") is the smith who made Thor's hammer. Although it isn't explicitly stated, it is likely that he was a dwarf.

Next week is going to be very busy for me, so the next Thorsday update will be on July 24. My apologies in advance :( For those who asked/are curious, this story is going to be around 20 chapters long.


	11. Prayer

.

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**Prayer**

.

Never in a thousand years would Gæl have dreamed that their first kiss—or _any_ kiss—could be as beautiful and as meaningful as it had been that night, the northern lights setting the sky ablaze the way Margaretha had sparked a firestorm in his heart.

Of course, it was not for a lack of imagination—far from it. In Gæl's mind, he had kissed Margaretha a thousand times before, in a thousand different ways. But their real first kiss took him by surprise just the same.

Perhaps it was the way the northern lights appeared over Gæl's head as he brooded over ways to broach the subject of freeing his thrall. Perhaps it was the way Margaretha danced and played with his siblings that night, showing once again how seamlessly she had integrated into their lives, how _right _it felt for them to be a family. Perhaps it was the way she called him stubborn, uttering the exact same words Hejsel had used to describe Hallvard, connecting—once and for all—Gæl's ideal of the perfect love to the reality of _her_ and _them _and _now_.

Whatever it was, it dissolved any remaining resolve Gæl had to keep his feelings hidden any longer.

Gæl had kissed Margaretha in mid-sentence and her warm mouth, lips already parted, had invited him in. He gently pulled her bottom lip in between both of his, savoring the softness and fullness of it, losing himself in the scent of her, the feel of her. Then she made a faint noise, a gasp and a sigh and his name all mixed together in a sound of pleasure that made him want to devour her. He had known many a long and difficult winter, but had he ever known true hunger before this? Before he could think of the answer, she was running her hands up his stomach, his chest, locking her fingers in his hair, daring him to think that she wanted and needed him just as much as he wanted and needed her.

The words slipped out quickly, easily, because they were simple, because they were true. "I love you."

It was not how he had planned on saying it. He had agonized and strategized over what he would say when the time came. Something about rain again, perhaps, or something about fire-steels and striking-stones. Or something entirely different, something much grander and more suited to the occasion. _You are my universe_: _Yggdrasil, the nine worlds, everything that exists, everything that matters._

Margaretha pulled away and, for a moment, Gæl was filled with an awful fear that he had gone too far. But then she looked at him with those piercing blue eyes and laid one hand over his beating heart.

"I love you, too." She laughed softly. "I have already told you this in my dreams, but it feels good to finally say it to the real you."

Gæl's heart flooded with relief and warmth and love. "You did not tell me about these dreams," he said, teasing her.

What was it his mother had said? _Sometimes we find love where we least expect it._

"I did," Margaretha said with a smile that took his breath away. "Just not all of them."

_Sometimes love finds us._

"Tell me more," he said, before their lips met anew.

_And it is far, far more wonderful, terrifying, and precious than we can ever dream it could be._

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

If Hejsel and the children had any doubt that things would change between Gæl and Margaretha after the night of the northern lights, those doubts were swiftly and thoroughly dispelled the next morning.

The eldest Hallvardson had left at dawn as usual, to check on what his snares had caught the night before, and he had come back with two squirrels. Such a paltry return would normally have him in a bad mood, but that morning the corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile as he proclaimed that the animals were learning to outsmart his traps, and that he would have to design better ones soon.

Then, when the family sat down to eat the morning meal, no-one missed the tender glances between them, nor the way Gæl's hands lingered over Margaretha's as she gave him his first, second, and third bowls of porridge.

"You certainly look very happy," Hejsel observed as she and her firstborn washed the dishes together. She had sent Margaretha outside with the children to tidy up the store room beside the animal stalls.

Gæl leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek. "Do not pretend that you did not have a hand in it. I am eternally grateful."

"What comes next?" Hejsel asked. "When will you free her?"

"Soon," Gæl said. If there was one flaw in the perfection of their first kiss, it was that it had come before he could free Margaretha. "It was my plan to free her before—before I told her how I felt. But now, well, I have to come up with a new plan."

"What is there to plan?" his mother wanted to know. "A goat to sacrifice, ale for the freedom feast. I do not think Margaretha would want too much attention on her, so the feast can be a small gathering of friends and family, easily arranged in a day or two. Say the word and it is so."

"Yes, but… to do it so soon after last night seems wrong. I do not want her to think I am trading her freedom for her love."

The former shieldmaiden hesitated. "All this talk of 'last night'… I know I contrived to give the two of you some privacy, and I trust you more than anyone else alive, but I must ask—"

"You have nothing to fear," Gæl assured her, before his mother could speak her concerns out loud. "All is well. Protecting her reputation, and our family's, is foremost in my mind."

Hejsel smiled, visibly relieved as she dried her hands. "That is good to know. I wish I could tell you that it does not matter what others think, but that is not the way of the world in which we live. Your actions today will determine how Margaretha and your children—my grandchildren—will be treated in the future."

_Margaretha and our children._ Gæl turned the phrase over and over in his mind as he put away the dishes. He reveled in the knowledge that his mother seemed to view them, for all intents and purposes, as good as married.

"Look what we found in the store room," Vik announced as he entered the house, brandishing a stringed wooden board. "A lyre! Margaretha is going to teach me how to play."

"I had forgotten we even had that," Hejsel remarked. "It was one of the last things Hallvard brought back from the raids."

Margaretha appeared in the doorway and smiled shyly at Gæl and Hejsel. "It is not exactly the same as what I used to have," she hastened to explain. "This has seven strings, and mine had eight. But the principle is similar, and with some practice Vik and I should be able to play."

"One can never have enough music at feasts," Hejsel said, raising an eyebrow at Gæl.

His mother was right. He and Margaretha already had an understanding; surely she would not hold it against him to free her in this manner. What was he waiting for?

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"_I am sorry things did not go according to your plan," Peeta apologized to Róry when they said goodbye to the Eyvindsdottirs in order to continue their journey to the jarl's house. "You were not able to spend time alone with Prim."_

_Róry dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. "There will be other visits, and other opportunities. On my part, I am sorry for telling them about Delly. Though it had the effect I intended, I did not expect it to happen the way it did."_

"_What effect?" the monk asked miserably. "It only made Katnisse hate me."_

"_She does not hate you," Róry said. "If this evening has proved anything, it is that she loves you. But Katnisse would never admit it to anyone, least of all to you, so my only recourse was to try to make her jealous. She is very much like Gæl in that regard."_

_Peeta's heart skipped a beat. "You truly think she is jealous of Delly?"_

"_From the way she interrogated you, and sat sulking while we waited for the thunderstorm to pass? Yes, as sure as Sleipnir has eight legs." Róry smirked. "Now that you know how she feels, what will you do with this information?"_

"_If you paid more attention to the conversations you eavesdropped on, you would know that the answer is nothing," Peeta replied. "The chasm between us is too wide and too deep. There is the question of my status and my vows."_

"_I have never quite understood the particulars of your vows," the other boy admitted._

"_It is a vow of celibacy, of chastity," the Saxon explained. "It means I cannot lie with anyone, nor take a wife. I cannot father children. It is a vow I had to take in order to become a monk, which is a special type of priest."_

"_What will happen if you break that vow?"_

"_I—I would have sinned in the eyes of the Lord, and if I were not forgiven I might be denied entrance to heaven. Imagine… imagine being a warrior, and being turned away from Valhalla."_

"_Could you stop being a priest? I hardly think you are able to carry out your priestly duties in Tolv, so you are likely halfway there already."_

_Róry's words filled Peeta with guilt. It was true; by then he had become a monk in name only. He could not even remember the last time he had prayed. Even on the longboats, whenever Haymið would invoke the protection of the sea god Ægir and the billow maidens, Peeta did not call on his own god. Instead, he merely made the sign of the cross—a symbol so close to the sign of Thor's hammer that not even the most zealous of Northerners could find fault in it._

_The thirteen-year-old carried on. "I am sure you will say that this, too, is a sin. But think about it. The longer you suppress what you feel for Katnisse, the more you will hate the vows you have taken. Instead of being a comfort to you, your faith will become a burden, and you will be filled with resentment towards your god. Even the gods of the North do not accept prayers and sacrifices made begrudgingly. Surely your god would rather that you be happy, and come to him with love."_

"_There is another way," Peeta found himself saying. "I can choose to stop loving Katnisse."_

"_I will tell you the same thing I told Katnisse," Róry said. "If you think you can stop yourself from loving someone, you are only lying to yourself. What does your god think of liars?"_

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

After a year of speaking almost exclusively in Norse, Peeta struggled to form with his lips and tongue the words he had intoned daily in a previous life.

"_Pater noster_," he began. That much was easy.

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum._

_Adveniat regnum tuum._

_Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra._

_Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie,_

_et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris._

_Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo._

As beautiful as the words were, they felt empty. Strange. Foreign. He tried again, this time in the common tongue of the Saxons.

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name._

_Thy kingdom come._

_Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven._

_Give us this day our daily bread,_

_and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us._

_And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil._

"Amen," he whispered, feeling a sob rise in his throat.

Though he acquired his faith later in life than Josef did, Peeta had clung to it like a lifeline. His mother had been distant and cruel; his father well-meaning but powerless. He lived in a world in which young men and women were taken from their homes, never to be seen again, to satisfy the caprices of the mad king. A world in which peasants worked to their deaths, a world in which even noblemen like Margaretha's father were punished for their good deeds. A world in which he could not place his trust in men, so he learned to put his faith in Christ, that one day He would set right all that was evil and wrong.

(The Son of man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity; / And shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth. / Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.)

At first the silence of the monastery only served to amplify the screams of the demons he had within. But as Peeta eased into a life of quiet contemplation, surrounded by the art that he admired, he found comfort in God. Peeta had yearned for love for so long, and for a time he thought he had found it with sweet, selfless Delly. But God—this being, this force that had been there since the beginning of time—somehow found him and loved him. Peeta, the spare, the one whose death would not inconvenience anyone. _Thou worm_, Peeta.

When he took his vows, that was the first time he felt his life had meaning. The first time he felt like he mattered.

How could he leave that all behind?

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"I heard you pray."

Haymið sat down across from him, a small wooden chest in his hands.

Peeta nodded pensively. "It has been a long time since I last did so. I thought I had forgotten how."

"Perhaps this will help." The jarl opened the chest to reveal what lay nestled therein.

"My crucifix," the younger man said, stunned. "I thought you had sold it."

Haymið looked at him strangely. "Why would I do such a thing? I only held it for safekeeping. A thrall wearing jewelry would be drawing unwanted attention to himself, and wearing Christian symbols in the North is a quick way to die."

The older man took the crucifix out of the chest, and laid it on the bench next to him. Other pieces of jewelry followed: a familiar medallion bearing the likeness of a bird, which Haymið proceeded to put around his neck. A pendant of Thor's hammer Mjolnir. An assortment of silver arm rings such as the warriors wore to show their fealty to him.

Haymið pressed the crucifix into Peeta's palm. "You have earned it back, after a year's loyal service to me."

"I… thank you, Haymið." Peeta was in the unfamiliar position of being at a loss for words.

"You are usually more eloquent than that," Haymið said wryly.

"Forgive me. I am overwhelmed by the kindness of your gesture." Peeta hesitated, then pointed at the medallion. "Is that… Was Margaretha not wearing that medallion at her wedding feast?"

"She was wearing something like this, but this one is mine," Haymið answered simply. "The one you see before you now, it belonged to… her aunt, or perhaps it was her mother, whom I loved long ago."

Peeta understood. "The Saxon girl from the stories." With this one revelation, many more things came to light. "And Mjolnir?"

"My father's. He was a great man, though I did not tell him so when he was alive. Or, at least, not as often as I would have liked to tell him so."

Haymið picked up one of the arm rings and rubbed his thumb across the surface. It had been made to look like a circle of rope. The knots were less intricate than what one would find in Finn's nets or Gæl's snares, but they were beautiful just the same.

The jarl held it out to him. "Take this as well."

"You honor me with this gift, Haymið," Peeta said. "You know that I am loyal to you, and I respect you more than any man in this world. But surely you do not expect me to accept something of this magnitude. For me to pledge fealty to anyone, I would have to be…" He trailed off and his eyes widened in realization.

"A free man?" Haymið suggested, lifting an eyebrow. "Do not make me regret this, Peeta. You are supposed to be clever; that was why I took you in my confidence in the first place."

Peeta's jaw fell open. "Are you… are you truly…"

"There is the matter of the freedom feast, but we can keep that small and simple. In any case, the ceremony is less important than the spirit of it. You are already freed, in my eyes. Perhaps you have been for a long time."

_Free._

_I am free._

Haymið coughed. "You are expected to say something at this juncture."

"I.." Peeta's eyes blurred with tears. "I have not been free for a long time. Looking back, I do not think I have ever been free. How do I ever repay you?"

"You do not," the jarl replied. "That is the point. But if it makes you feel better, know that you deserve it. It was your knowledge of the wealthiest towns and villages in Panym that made this summer's raids so profitable. And if it were not for you, I would not have Margaretha in my life. Whether she is my daughter or not, you have given me something I have wanted for seventeen years. You have given me back a piece of Maysilleigh."

He nodded at the arm ring in Peeta's hands. "Go on, then, put it on."

It fit perfectly. "What comes next?" Peeta asked, quickly wiping his face with his shirt. It would not do to cry in front of the man who was giving him his freedom.

Haymið spread his hands. "Traditionally, freed men are expected to seek their former master's advice and approval for all important decisions, but our relationship is such that I hardly think it is necessary. What comes next is up to you."

"What do other thralls do when they are freed?"

"Many continue serving their former masters, or other free men, as wage workers or as an adopted member of their family. Most female thralls are freed so that they can marry and bear children who are free. A few journey home whence they came. It is your choice."

"What would you rather I do?"

"I would much like you to continue assisting me as my steward. We will still need a translator in the future. Thanks to you, I have regained my knowledge of your language, but a native speaker is always better. If you wish, you can become a full-fledged warrior; I have seen you in training and know you can become a good fighter. You have your shield and ax from last summer, and I can provide you with a proper sword." Haymið paused in reflection. "You already have one advantage over all other warriors in Tolv today. Even though Norse was not your first language, you have shown much skill in poetry, and Bragi knows we have wanted for a great skald since Eyvind passed."

"Finn is a poet," Peeta pointed out.

Haymið snorted. "Finn fancies himself a poet, but sadly this is the one thing in which he does not excel. It is a testament to their love that Anni appreciates his verses." The jarl's face grew serious. "If the life of a warrior-poet does not appeal to you, you can take up a trade. You have a talent for art, so perhaps you can become a craftsman. Or... bread is not normally sold, but that which you make is so good that I suspect there shall be demand for it. And for as long as we prosper in the raids, the people of Tolv will have silver to spare on bread even if they can full well make it themselves."

Peeta nodded. "And... say I have renounced my vows. Am I free to marry whom I wish to marry?"

"I had a feeling you would ask." Haymið smirked. "You will need to wait, for you cannot afford anyone's bride-price at the moment. But the answer is yes, for as long as she consents to the match, and for as long as Gísla has no objections."

The younger man's face flushed. "Does everyone know?"

"Everyone except Katnisse herself, if I am not mistaken." The jarl chuckled. "This reminds me. You would do well to steer clear of Jórunnr now that you have been freed. Rumor has it that she is determined to seduce you."

Almost immediately after Haymið had spoken her name, the shieldmaiden in question burst into the room. "A ship is on its way to Tolv," Jó reported, her face pale. She took no heed of Peeta. "Are you expecting anyone?"

Haymið shot up from his seat, shaking his head. "What does the ship look like?"

"It is a longboat from the North," Jó said. "It is too far away to identify the people on board. But it sails under the symbol of the raven."

"Alert the warriors," the jarl ordered. "Tell them we shall meet at the harbor."

Jó nodded curtly. She turned as if to leave, then spun around again and pointed at the medallion around Haymið's neck. "That is the one," she said with a gasp. "That is the symbol on the ship's sail."

The blood drained from Haymið's face. "Tell Gæl Hallvardson to bring Margaretha," he commanded. "That was not a raven that you saw. It was a mockingjay."

* * *

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**A/N:**

Celibacy was not required of priests until after the Viking Age. However, Peeta is a monk and an ascetic.

In the second instance of the Lord's Prayer, I used the King James Version. The Old English version is nearly unrecognizable to modern English speakers.

All my sources say a master could free his thrall anytime, but at least one also mentions a "freedom feast" in which a goat (symbolizing the thrall's former life) would be sacrificed. Also, freed thralls were still not on the same level as freeborn men and women; it usually took at least one generation, or even up to four, for the stigma to disappear completely.

Sleipnir is Odin's horse; he has eight legs and is the son of Loki. Bragi is the skaldic god of poetry. Ægir is the sea god: the Vikings would have prayed to him, his wife Rán, and their nine daughters (who may have been the joint mother/s of Heimdall, guardian of the rainbow bridge Bifrost) to keep them safe while at sea.

Guest reviewer **browneyes05 **was looking for a fic in which Gale and Madge play at a school recital together after Madge's duet partner ditches her. I believe the fic you're looking for is **Belle453**'s _Love &amp; Friendship Games_, chapter 3. Hope that helped!


	12. Lady

**WARNING: Mentions of cruelty and violence.**

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**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**Lady**

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When Hejsel recalled that the seven-stringed lyre came with a bow—unlike the eight-stringed lyre which was played like a harp—Vik and Margaretha returned to the store room to hunt down the missing part.

"Could the animals have found it and eaten it?" Vik wondered aloud as Margaretha searched the high places the ten-year-old could not reach.

"I certainly hope not," she answered. "It would be very difficult to find a replacement."

"Gæl would be able to make one," the boy said confidently. "He can make anything."

"That is very sweet of you to say," Margaretha said. "Gæl would be very happy to know that you hold his skill in such high esteem."

"When are you and Gæl going to get married?"

Margaretha's face burned. She was grateful that her back was turned so that Vik could not see. "I am afraid it is a little more complicated than setting a date," she said carefully. "Besides, what makes you think Gæl and I are going to get married?"

Vik giggled. "Róry says the only thing Gæl does not know how to make is babies. Maybe it will be easier if you are marri—_ow_!"

Despite her embarrassment, Margaretha whirled around at the sound of Vik's shriek.

"Of course I know how to make babies," Gæl said scornfully. Vik stood beside him, wincing as he touched his ear gingerly.

Margaretha cupped Vik's face in her hands as she checked him for cuts or early signs of bruising. "Vik was only teasing," she reprimanded Gæl. "He was only repeating things Róry said to antagonize you."

Gæl shooed his youngest brother away. "Go, unless you want to see me prove what I know."

"Mama!" Vik yelled as he ran off. "Gæl is trying to make babies with Margaretha!"

"What did you say?" Hejsel's voice thundered from inside the house.

"It was just a joke!" Gæl called.

Margaretha put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. "How much _do_ you know about making babies?"

"Only that you are the woman I want to make babies with," Gæl told her, leaning in for a kiss.

Margaretha stepped aside, leaving Gæl to plant his lips on a bale of hay. "Good answer, but not today."

"Tomorrow, then," he suggested with a wicked grin.

"Gæl…" she said warningly.

He took her hand and kissed it. "Sometimes you make me too happy."

"Silly is more like it."

His face grew serious. "I wish to speak with you regarding last night. What I said... I did not mean to say it that way."

"What?" she cried, pulling her hand away.

"No! I mean… Hel's teeth." Gæl exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. "I love you. I have never been more sure of anything in my life. But… ever since I realized the way I felt about you, I knew I had to win your love the right way. By being your friend first, and gaining your trust. Then by freeing you and giving you the choice to stay if you loved me back, or to leave if you did not." He smiled ruefully. "I did not plan on kissing you until you chose me of your own free will. I did not want anything to cloud your judgment."

"Free will is not something that goes away just because you kissed me."

"I know. I just…" Gæl pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes. "The night of the harvest feast, Thome offered to buy your freedom so that he could take you to wife. I refused, saying it would break Pósy's heart if you left us… saying that it would not be true freedom, if he did not also give you the freedom to choose whom to marry. Thome saw through me, and told me I was in love with you. He challenged me to free you myself, if I was so adamant about giving you the right to choose."

"Oh, Gæl." Margaretha reached up and pulled his hands from his face. "I do choose you."

"Because you have gotten to know me," Gæl pointed out. "But what if you had been given to Thome? What if you had gone home with him, and gotten to know him? See, it was not entirely your choice. It was more… chance, if anything. Even last night, you said—you said I was the only man who ever laid claim to you. How can you choose from a pool of one?"

"You are forgetting one thing," Margaretha said, pressing his hand to her cheek. "You are so worried about giving me the freedom to choose, you forget that it is equally important to respect my decisions once I have made them."

"If I were to tell you that I wanted to free you and marry you," Gæl said huskily, "would you think that I was taking advantage of you? That I was trying to buy your love with freedom?"

"You cannot buy what you already have," Margaretha said, grasping his collar.

"Good answer," he said, as she pulled him down for a kiss.

It was not until they heard the neighing of horses that they pulled apart. Gæl peered outside to see Jó riding up to the house with Katnisse's entire family in tow. Their faces were grim and Katnisse had her bow and a quiver of arrows on her back.

"Is something the matter?" Margaretha asked fearfully.

"There is trouble," Gæl said. He grabbed her hand. "Let us go and find out."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Having left Katnisse's mother and sister with Gæl's family, the warriors and Margaretha rode for the harbor. As they approached, Katnisse nocked an arrow in her bow and Jó held her ax at the ready. Gæl drew his sword with one hand, while keeping one arm around Margaretha who sat astride his horse in front of him.

They were among the last to arrive, and the ship had just come into land.

"What does Tretten want with Tolv now?" Jó muttered under her breath as she watched the passengers disembark.

Gæl recognized Bogg, the jarl of Tretten. At his side was the warrior Holm, and the shieldmaiden Lyme. Then came another shieldmaiden, a dark-haired girl that looked even younger than Katnisse, capably wielding a shield that was nearly as tall as her entire body. Next came a tall, lean redheaded man with an eyepatch, then an older but powerfully built man with white hair cropped close to his head.

The last to leave the ship was a woman wearing an expensive-looking cloak with fur on the shoulders. Even from this distance, Gæl could tell that she was highborn.

He felt Margaretha's body stiffen. "What is the matter?" he whispered, tightening his arm around her waist. "Do you know any of these people?"

Margaretha's eyes were round with fear. She nodded.

"The woman," she said hoarsely. "She is my mother-in-law."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Welcome, Bogg," Haymið said in greeting. He and Eyfri sat in the center of the hall to receive their unexpected guests. "It has been a long time since you visited Tolv. I had assumed that you were going to spend the winter in Éire."

"Some of our men are there still," Bogg replied. "But an opportunity has come knocking, and I thought it best to share it with you personally and with haste. My company and I are here to propose an alliance."

"An alliance, eh?" Haymið repeated, leaning back in his seat and stretching his legs. His voice was steady; his eyes revealed nothing. "I am interested in what you have to say. But first, I would much like to know the story behind your sail. It bears a symbol we do not normally associate with Tretten. From afar, it looked to be Odin's raven, but now that you have landed, we realize that it is a different manner of bird entirely."

"The symbol is not mine, but of my good lady who has accompanied us here today," Bogg answered. He gestured respectfully towards the mysterious cloaked woman. "I present to you the lady Heavensby from the kingdom of Panym. Though she is a Saxon, through our negotiations she has come to learn Norse, so we may speak without the need for a translator."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady," Haymið said without skipping a beat. "I dare say your name is familiar to me."

"I dare say it is," Lady Heavensby said coolly. She was a beauty, with high cheekbones and a patrician nose. "You and your men slaughtered my son and my husband, destroyed my home, and carted away my riches a mere few months ago. I would imagine that my name would be very, very familiar to you."

"It is true that my army laid siege to Heavensby," Haymið affirmed. "But if you are the woman you say you are, then I had expected to meet you at your son's own wedding feast. I never forget a face, yet I cannot recall yours."

"If you had seen me, I would likely have been killed or enslaved," Lady Heavensby replied. "As it happened, my loyal bodyguard had seen your men in the distance, and deduced what was about to take place. He stole me away before you arrived, and I thank God every day that he did."

"You fled without your son and your husband?"

"Alas, there was no time to save anyone else. Would that there was." Lady Heavensby lifted her chin and surveyed the crowd. "If you are still not convinced that I am who I say I am, perhaps another can verify my claim. The ports we passed on the way here were still abuzz with rumors of a beautiful blonde bride that had been taken captive by the men of Tolv last summer. I do believe I know to whom they were referring."

She walked around the room slowly, purposefully, looking into the face of each person present. Finally her gaze came to rest upon Margaretha, and the corner of her mouth turned upwards in a sardonic smile. "Dearest daughter-in-law, we meet again at last. I knew you would not be killed or traded away. How good it is to see you alive and… well." Her eyes gleamed as she took note of Gæl standing at Margaretha's side, his body angled protectively towards her, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword in its sheath. "Well, well, well."

"Thank you for your kind thoughts, my lady," Margaretha said, curtsying as low as she could and keeping her eyes on the ground. "I too am happy to see that you are in good health."

"I would never have suspected that you were a woman after my own heart. It is always the quiet ones." Lady Heavensby let out a short, hollow laugh.

_What was she playing at?_

"Well, then," the older woman said crisply. "Tell these people who I am."

"You are the lady Heavensby," Margaretha said. "Wife of the late earl, mother of my departed husband, may they rest in peace. Sister of the ruler of Panym, King Coriolan, the first of his name." She spoke calmly and evenly, not hesitating or stumbling for a moment, not even over the word _husband_.

"Half-sister," Lady Heavensby said with a sneer. "And after all we have been through, both of our husbands dead at the hands of these Northmen, perhaps we can dispense with the formalities. You may call me by my birth name."

"As you wish," Margaretha replied, "my lady Coinn."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

From the fringes of the crowd, Peeta watched the scene unfold.

"Your identity may be confirmed, but I am still confused," Haymið said. His face begged to differ. "Bogg spoke of an alliance, and I presume you are here to be part of any such agreement. Yet you make no secret of the fact that you consider the Northmen, and me most of all, your enemy."

"Margaretha's introduction contained the answer which you seek," Lady Coinn responded. "I wish to ascend the throne upon which my half-brother sits. He is beset with madness, but refuses to relinquish his powers. Help me, and my former grievances shall be forgotten. More than that, I will reward you with the fertile lands of Panym, and greater wealth than you can imagine."

"Dear lady, you underestimate my imagination. However, as tempting as your offer may sound, I have never meddled in the affairs of the Saxons. I do not intend to start now."

"Is that so? Then perhaps I have mistaken you for someone else," Lady Coinn replied. "I was told that the most cunning chieftain in the North held the mockingjay close to his heart."

Haymið reached out and gripped Eyfri's hand, but he did not say a word.

Lady Coinn turned to face Margaretha once again. "Tell him, child. Tell him why your mother-in-law sails under the banners of your natural family."

"I do not know, my lady," Margaretha said. Peeta knew his friend was lying. She had confided in him about the rebellion, and something told him she did not trust Lady Coinn.

"Tell him about the significance of the mockingjay."

"The mockingjay is but a songbird, my lady," Margaretha said. "My family loved music above all else, and it was my ancestors who had been the first to breed the mockingjay and introduce its sweet melodies to Panym."

"Oh, Margaretha," Lady Coinn said, shaking her head. "Though we may be cut from the same cloth, in many ways you are truly your father's daughter."

Lady Coinn addressed Haymið. "The songs of the mockingjay are beautiful, to be sure, but they are of equal parts music and rebellion. Dissidents from Panym have long used mockingjays to relay secret messages among themselves, and to sow confusion among their enemies.

"And if there was ever a time for revolution, it is now. In his quest for immortality, my half-brother has been collecting tribute in the form of young Saxon men and women. There are rumors that they are sacrificed, brought like lambs to the slaughter, to extend the life of the king. But the truth is far worse."

_No_, Peeta thought, his mind reeling.

_Josef, my brother, what have they done to you?_

Lady Coinn nodded to the redheaded man with the eyepatch. He stepped forward. "This young man's name is Darius," she said. "He is a living testament to the cruelty of the king. He was given as tribute just two months ago, but he managed to escape from the dungeons, and now he speaks your language as well as I do. Tell them, Darius."

"The king believes that he must eat whatever ails him," the young man said in Norse. His voice rang clear and true. "He keeps the young men for this purpose. Should his foot pain him, he has the corresponding appendage cut off from a tribute's leg and served to him on a platter."

Margaretha gasped. Peeta leaned against the wall to keep himself from collapsing. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and if he had had anything to eat in the past few hours he would surely have heaved it up by now. _Please, God, no more._

Darius continued. "In my case, perhaps I was fortunate, for when I was brought to him he complained only of his eyesight. It is as it was written in the Scriptures: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."

"What of the young women, Darius?" Lady Coinn questioned him.

"He keeps them to warm his bed, hoping that one would someday bear him the son he has never had. He defiles them, and then punishes them for being unclean, chaining them naked to cold stone walls until he is ready to defile them once again. Over and over, 'round and 'round it goes in a vicious cycle that, if the girl is lucky, ends in her death sooner rather than later."

"This is what is happening in Panym," Lady Coinn declared. "Anyone will agree that my half-brother must be stopped. As he has no living children, I am the rightful heir to the throne. It is my duty, my calling, to end his reign of tyranny and restore peace to the land I love. Join me, ye warriors of the North, and I will see that you are justly rewarded."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

The people of Tolv were divided.

"Why should we help her?" Eyfri demanded. She had sent Lady Coinn, Bogg, and their company to a guest house while the warriors conferred among themselves. "You said so yourself: we are not to interfere in the politics of the Saxons. We would only be endangering our warriors for their sake."

Haymið sat meditatively. "Finn?" he asked at last. "What do you think?"

"There is no love lost between Tolv and Tretten," Finn replied. "Years ago, we were under siege on our own soil. We called out for help, yet Tretten did not come to our aid. That was the battle that claimed Anni's brother Ulf. I can be forgiven for my hesitation to ally with Tretten." He paused and took a deep breath. "But, at the same time, I do not want to imitate Tretten's example of turning away when people need us the most. From Peeta and Margaretha, we have learned of the suffering endured by the people of Panym. Lady Coinn is offering us an opportunity to end that suffering. I believe Ulf would have wanted us to rise up against the oppressor."

"Are you mad?" Eyfri cried. "You have newborn children, _twins _as a matter of fact. They need you here, Finnbjorn. Anni needs you here. That—that _woman _is proposing to leave at once. Any day now, we should be seeing the first snow of the year. Who has ever heard of raiding in wintertime? It is preposterous!"

"It is preposterous," Haymið agreed. "It is so preposterous, the Saxons will never see us coming."

"Do not tell me you are seriously considering it," the jarl's wife said. "It is not worth our time nor our concern."

"If I may, Haymið," Peeta said from where he was leaning against the wall. "I would like to suggest something."

"Of course," Haymið said. "You are a freed man, and you are free to speak."

Peeta nodded his gratitude. For a moment he remained silent, twisting his newly acquired arm ring around his wrist. "The warriors of Tretten, some of them were hired to be mercenaries in Éire, correct?"

"Yes," Haymið replied.

"They are not acting as an army. Rather, individual warriors volunteered as they saw fit."

"Aye."

"Then let us do the same for Lady Coinn. Instead of devoting our entire force to her quest to overthrow King Coriolan, let only those who volunteer go. Let it not be known that Tolv forced its warriors to fight a battle that was not theirs to begin with."

Haymið inclined his head. "That is a good plan. But who shall volunteer?"

"I volunteer," Peeta said without hesitation.

"Peeta, no," Katnisse said sharply. "You are not a warrior."

Peeta looked at Katnisse solemnly. "Perhaps not. But I wish to fight for the freedom of my people. Perhaps I will find my brother. If Josef is alive, I might be able to save him. If he is not… I will find a place to bury his bones. I will not find peace until Panym is free from the mad king."

The shieldmaiden's eyes hardened. "If you cannot be swayed… I volunteer."

"So will I," Jó said immediately. "You are hopeless without me, brainless."

"I will go," Cato said. Peeta looked at him in surprise.

Cato shrugged. "Fighting is fighting," the berserker said in a noncommittal tone.

Gæl turned to look at Margaretha. "That could have been you," he said gravely. "You could have been chosen as tribute."

"Yes," she whispered, knowing what he would say next.

"I volunteer," Gæl said.

"As do I," Margaretha found herself saying.

"I cannot let you do this, Margaretha," Haymið said. "You have never fought in your life. You would not last a minute on the battlefield."

"It is not just brute strength that wins battles, my lord," she told him. "You yourself are proof that cunning is worth more than gold. I may not be a fighter, but I have been watching and learning from rebels all my life. Despite what I told Lady Coinn, music is not the sole reason that my family's sigil is the mockingjay. I know I can help if you would only let me try."

Gæl nodded, his eyes filled with fear and pride and love.

Thome spoke up. "I, too, volunteer." He smiled at Gæl wryly. "You did not think I would let the two of you go without me, did you?"

"I am not going," Bristl declared. "So the both of you best look out for each other, because I will not be around to do it for you. And for the love of Tyr, do _not_ kill each other; the Saxons will be lining up to do that themselves."

At his words, many of the warriors laughed, breaking the tension in the room.

Finally, it was Finn's turn to speak. "It is a worthy cause, and I know Anni will understand. I will fight with pride and honor alongside you. I volunteer."

Peeta felt a surge of hope in his chest. _I will find you, Josef_, he swore to himself. _This is one vow I shall never break._

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**A/N:**

They're going on an adventure! *insert Bilbo Baggins gif here*

Tretten is Danish/Norwegian for "thirteen".

Gadge shippers will recognize Gale's fanon catchphrase "hell's teeth" from **Medea Smyke**. I've Norse-ified it as "Hel's teeth", after Loki's daughter Hel, who presides over the realm (also called Hel) of those who died of natural causes (as opposed to those who died in battle, who went to Odin's hall Valhalla or Freyja's field Fólkvangr).

In Norse, Saxon, and other Germanic cultures before their conversion to Christianity, Tyr was the god of law and war/heroic glory. Nowadays, he is often compared to the Roman Mars and the Greek Ares. Tuesday is named after him in the same way that Thursday is named after Thor, Wednesday is named after Odin (Woden), and Friday is named after the goddess (Frigg and/or Freyja).


	13. Rebellion

**NOTE: This is the aftermath of Chapter Twelve, from an Everlark-centric perspective.**

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**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**Rebellion**

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Haymið adjourned the gathering, with an admonition for the volunteers to return the next morning so that they could formally pledge their support for Lady Coinn's rebellion. "I will endeavor to make her tarry one day longer," he promised the warriors. "However long she has been plotting against her brother, we must make sure that there is a proper plan in place."

The jarl's voice took on a somber tone. "Remember that this voyage must be undertaken of your own free will," he said, gazing upon each of the volunteers in turn. "Go home and speak to your loved ones. Ask for their blessing. I shall not hold it against you if you change your mind."

As the warriors filed out of the hall, Jó touched Katnisse's hand. "Stay here with your family," she said quietly. "They need you more than Panym does."

Katnisse shook her head. "My mind is made up. If I—if anything happens to me, Róry will take care of Prim and my mother."

Jó's lips quirked up in a sad smile. "Oh, Katnisse. You have come so far."

"Go home, Jó," the archer said. "I shall see you tomorrow."

Katnisse waited for her friend to leave before she made her own way across the room to where Peeta stood. But Margaretha reached him before she could, and Katnisse fell back in disappointment.

"It was brave, what you did," a familiar voice said. Gæl appeared by her side, and together they watched the two Saxons embrace. "Not many men have the courage to be the first to volunteer for someone else's battle."

Katnisse's heart ached as Peeta held out his arm ring for Margaretha to see. "It is not bravery if you have no other choice." Gæl and Jó, of all people, should have known that Katnisse could not sit idly by while Peeta went off to war.

"Perhaps it is as you say," Gæl said. "Or perhaps it is the bravest thing of all."

Katnisse looked up at him: the partner she trusted with her life, the former suitor she had always loved like a brother. Not too long ago, Gæl would have rebuked her for endangering her life needlessly when her family depended on her. It was not like him to volunteer for such a mission, or to support her for doing the same.

"You love her," Katnisse said. She did not need to say Margaretha's name; the devotion in Gæl's eyes made it clear. "She makes you happy."

Now she understood her jealousy at the harvest feast, the sudden jolt of discomfort she had experienced at seeing Gæl and Margaretha together. It was not regret, like her mother had implied. It was the realization that she—Katnisse Eyvindsdottir, shieldmaiden, archer, her family's sole provider, the one who swore she could survive on her own—was finally, _finally_ ready to open her heart to another, but there was nothing she could do. She envied all those who had found love, like Finn and Anni, and all those who had love within their reach, like Gæl and Margaretha.

"Yes," Gæl said. "So happy, I fear that the gods cannot permit such good fortune to reside in one man for much longer."

"How can you endure it?" she asked, feeling her chest constrict. "How can you go on, knowing you can lose her at any time?"

"You live for each moment," Gæl said. "You love with all you have. The way my mother loved my father. The way your parents loved each other."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "But you can still choose not to fight; Haymið said so himself. Peeta and I did not start off on the best of terms, but I would like to think that now he is my friend, too. I can watch over him for you."

Katnisse shook her head. "This is something I must do, for myself as much as for Peeta. You must protect your love, and I must protect mine." As soon as she heard herself speak the words, she covered her face with her hands. _Oh, gods_.

Gæl hugged her to him. "You have admitted it at last. I knew it all along."

"You are the first one I have told," she said in a muffled voice. "I rarely even allow myself to think these thoughts inside my own head."

Gæl held her at arm's length and beamed at her. "It is only fitting. I am your best friend, after all."

"You are my best friend," Katnisse said, returning his smile joyfully as the truth of his words sank in. What happened between them in the past was forgiven and forgotten. "My best friend in the world."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Prim said she and Róry had a wager that they would get together," Katnisse said to Peeta, as they watched Gæl and Margaretha depart from the hall hand in hand. The shieldmaiden had stayed behind, saying she would make her own way back to Gæl's home later.

"Róry told me the same thing." Peeta laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "I, for one, admit I dared to hope it would be so."

Did he mean what she thought he meant?

_You live for each moment. You love with all you have._

"I am glad I can speak with you in private," Katnisse began, Gæl's words ringing in her ears. "There is something I need to—"

"I, too, am glad," Peeta said, interrupting her. "I am grateful for all you have done today. If you had not volunteered, I doubt many others would have done the same. But I must ask you to reconsider. Haymið will understand if you change your mind."

"I—what?" Katnisse's forehead wrinkled in confusion. She had expected this from the others, but not from the man whose idea it was in the first place. Did Peeta want to _lose_ this war?

"Prim and Gísla need you here."

"Anni and the twins need Finn," Katnisse shot back. "Gæl's family needs him. Have you asked them to reconsider?"

"No, but—"

"You need an archer, and I am the best there is, am I not?"

"There is no doubt."

"Then let me do what I have sworn to do."

"Please, Katnisse," Peeta said, his eyes pleading. "I cannot take you away from the ones you love. Please, before it is too late."

"You are wrong on both counts," Katnisse said hotly. "First of all, you are not taking me away from the ones I love, not entirely at least, because—because—" She choked on the words. "You stupid, stupid man, you are the one I love."

Peeta stared at her in shocked silence.

Still the words kept spilling out of her mouth, as sure as the tears were spilling from her eyes. "And, second of all, it _is_ too late. It is too late for me. I thought that by denying it, it would cease to be true. I thought that I could stop, and protect myself from the pain that always, _always_ follows. But what good did that do?"

Róry was right. It did not matter whether Peeta was free or not, whether he was a priest or not, whether he loved her back or not. Katnisse would feel the same, the love _and_ the pain, and she had to accept the possibility of losing him if she wanted a chance at having him at all. "Look at me. Against all reason, I have volunteered for a battle I do not have to fight, because I know how much it means to you, because I know I would die protecting you."

And with that, she ran.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Katnisse! Katnisse, wait!"

A moment of hesitation was all it took for Peeta to lose her. By the time he emerged from the hall, Katnisse had already swung herself up unto her horse and spurred it into a gallop. Peeta ran after her until he stumbled on a rock and his legs gave way.

A cackling sound caused Peeta to look up from where he lay sprawled on the ground. It was one of the shieldmaidens from Tretten: the pretty, dark-haired girl who would not look out of place in the company of Katnisse and Jó.

"What is the matter, lover boy?" she taunted him. She had a knife in one hand that she would toss in the air and then catch as it came hurtling back down to earth. This she did, over and over again, throwing it higher and higher each time. It was hypnotic to watch. "Do you not have a horse of your own to ride after her?"

Peeta remained silent, still trying to catch his breath, still trying to stop his head from spinning. But in the back of his mind, he thought: was this the kind of ally he wanted in the fight against King Coriolan?

It was as if she heard his thoughts and echoed them back to him. "Gods, I truly hope the rest of Tolv is made of sterner stuff. Between the two of you, and the couple that left just a while ago…" She shuddered in disgust. "Your longships might as well be called love boats. It is a wonder you get any raiding done at all."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Peeta said dryly. He watched Katnisse disappear into the distance. "I do believe Bogg neglected to introduce you."

The girl's eyes were almost black, and there was a dangerous flash to them even as she looked at him with amusement. "Are you trying to belittle me, lover boy? Intimidate me in some way?"

She plunged her knife into the ground in front of him, making Peeta flinch. "It is a worthy first attempt, and you are rather adorable," she whispered sweetly in his ear. "But I am afraid you need to try harder than that, lover boy."

She pulled the knife out and sauntered away without another word.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Her name was Clove, Peeta learned the next morning, when the volunteers from Tolv gathered in the hall once more.

"Is she a berserker?" he asked Jó. It struck fear into his heart, to think of Clove anywhere near the mushrooms the berserkers ingested to induce their battle-trances.

Jó looked at him sympathetically. "Did you have a run-in with her, too?"

"I suppose one could say that," Peeta hedged. "Who else has she terrorized?"

Jó angled her head discreetly in the direction she wanted him to look. Peeta's eyes landed on Cato and what seemed to be a newly acquired black eye.

Peeta sucked in his breath. "He is nearly twice her size," he said in awe.

Jó smirked. "I like her already."

"You would," Peeta grumbled.

"But to answer your question, she is not a berserker. Her rage is hers and hers alone." Something flickered in Jó's eyes, but then she changed the subject. "What happened between you and the brainless one last night?"

"Who told you?"

"No-one. She looked determined to speak to you, so I came today expecting you to be joined at the hip like Gæl and Margaretha. But you are not, so perhaps it did not go as well as Katnisse might have hoped."

"That is something you need to ask Katnisse herself."

"Do you love her?" Jó asked bluntly.

The question caught him off guard. "What?"

"Do you love her?" Jó repeated. "It is a simple enough question, answerable by yes or no."

Peeta bristled. "I—yes," he said defensively. "Everyone seems to know. I am surprised you had to ask."

"I needed to hear it directly from you," Jó said. "I love Katnisse like a sister, and if you cannot be honest with me then you do not deserve her. You shall be pleased to know that you have passed the first test."

"What are the others?" he asked suspiciously. Jó had a habit of challenging her own suitors to single combat. Peeta wondered where Haymið got the ridiculous idea that this ferocious woman would ever want to seduce _him_.

"Now, it would not be fair if I told you, would it?" Jó replied.

Peeta opened his mouth, wanting to say that this was hardly the time for such tests, when Lady Coinn, Bogg, Clove, and the rest of their company entered the hall. At the same time, Finn appeared beside Jó, dusting snow off his bronze hair and his cloak.

"Eyfri was right," the fisherman said. "The first snow of the year has fallen."

"How did Anni take the news?" Jó asked.

"She would rather that we not go, of course," Finn said. "But she knows that, had it been Sægeirr and Unna who were in danger of being chosen as tribute, she would be the first to raise arms against any king. And she asked me to tell you, Peeta, that she admires you for your courage, and she hopes that we will find your brother. The fact that Darius lives means there is a chance."

"Thank you, Finn," Peeta said, feeling a lump rise in his throat. "I am grateful to you and Anni for your support. As for my brother... I share your hope. Darius is truly fortunate to have escaped. Though he may have lost an eye, I can think of many alternatives that are far worse."

"Here in the North, we consider the loss of an eye to be an honor," Finn opined. "After all, it was not until Odin gouged out his own eye that he was able to drink from Mímir's well. To sacrifice an eye is to gain wisdom."

"Quiet, both of you," Jó said sharply. "Haymið is about to speak."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Lady Coinn, after much deliberation, the warriors have agreed that yours is a worthy cause," Haymið said. "However, as noble as your intent may be, the task at hand is fraught with peril. We would much like to hear your plan for the mission before we commit ourselves further."

"The course we take depends on the skills we have at our disposal," Lady Coinn answered. She wore her long hair simply, parted in the middle and combed straight past her shoulders. The streaks of grey in the fading auburn made her look stately, dignified; every inch a queen. "I would much like to know who stands with us, before I share any such plan."

"Very well," the jarl of Tolv replied. He gestured to all those who gathered in his hall. "The men and women you see before you today, these are the ones who have come forward in support of your crusade against your brother. I shall join you as well, in solidarity with these volunteers, and because I abhor how Panym has treated its children. But we are your allies only for as long as you treat us as your equals. We have the right to know your strategies and plans, and we ask that you listen to our concerns and value our counsel when it is offered to you. Do you accept our terms?"

Lady Coinn swept her eyes around the hall and nodded in satisfaction. "Everyone I wished to be here, is here. I accept your terms."

"Bogg?" Haymið said, directing his question at his fellow jarl.

"Tretten has always treated Tolv as its equal," Bogg said. "Your terms are fair and just. I, too, accept."

"Good. All those who are here bear witness."

Margaretha watched as the three leaders performed the ceremonial handshake that Gæl had told her to expect. "The handsal requires at least six free men to act as witnesses," her love had said yesterday, as they rode back home to tell the family what had taken place. "Once it is made, there is no turning back."

"To overthrow my half-brother, we need a two-pronged attack," Lady Coinn said crisply. "He must be captured and taken into our custody, so that we can prepare a public execution. At the same time, we need to swiftly and decisively overcome his military, so that no loyalists remain that would attempt to rescue him prior to his death, and so that no upstart could challenge my claim to the throne."

"And so that we can free the tributes he has imprisoned, of course," Haymið said.

Lady Coinn paused for a heartbeat before she nodded her assent. "They are of secondary importance under the circumstances, but yes. Of course."

"How powerful is his army?" Haymið asked.

"Three hundred strong in the summertime, when he expects invaders from the North," she said. "Fewer, in winter. We shall send spies ahead of us to confirm their number. To get into his chambers, however, we shall need to get past his personal bodyguards, of which there are a dozen."

"Do not worry, Haymið," Bogg said. "The warriors of Tretten have defeated far more with far fewer."

In the end, it was agreed that the allies would set sail on the morrow at dawn. "Say your goodbyes and make ready your families," Haymið said, addressing the volunteers from Tolv. "Ask them to offer sacrifices for our safe return."

Lady Coinn found Margaretha as she was leaving. "Dearest daughter-in-law, I cannot express how happy I am that you shall be accompanying us on our voyage," she told the younger woman. "The blood of the mockingjay truly runs in your veins. I shall make sure to find a special role for you to play."

Margaretha dipped into a curtsy. "It is my honor, my lady," she said in reply. "I share your desire to free our homeland from the tyrant upon its throne."

Lady Coinn turned to look at Gæl. "You have not yet introduced me to the man who appears to have replaced my late son."

"I apologize. My lady, this is Gæl, son of the warrior Hallvard and the shieldmaiden Hejsel. He is..." Margaretha trailed off. She supposed she trusted Lady Coinn enough to follow her into battle, but did she trust her enough to reveal everything that Gæl meant to her? "He is an honorable man."

"You cannot have known him for very long, but if you are anything like your father, I am sure you are an excellent judge of character." Lady Coinn turned to acknowledge the muscular, white-haired gentleman by her side. "You remember my bodyguard."

"Of course," Margaretha said, bowing once more. Memories arose in her mind: the lady and her lover, entwined in pleasure whenever the earl was away to find rebels for his wife's cause. Stolen moments Margaretha had not meant to see, but would never forget, and could never truly forgive. "For the service you have rendered unto my good lady, for everything you have done for the family Heavensby, I thank you, Sir Thread."

"Wonderful. I shall see you at dawn. And, Margaretha, if I may make a request?" Lady Coinn smiled the smile of a woman who was accustomed to having her way.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Your wedding dress. If you still have it, I would much like you to wear it tomorrow."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

When Gæl and Katnisse told their families the night before about the rebellion, Hejsel and Gísla took the news as well as could have been expected. Róry expressed his desire to volunteer, saying he was as well prepared as Peeta and certainly more prepared than Margaretha, but in the end he accepted that his place was at home helping protect his family and Katnisse's. Prim shed a tear, but agreed that the children of Panym were worth fighting for. As for Vik, he clung to Margaretha and made her promise that they would resume their music lessons sooner rather than later.

But as far as Pósy was concerned, it was a raid like any other. "You will be back soon," the four-year-old said confidently to the eldest Hallvardson. Her mother and her brothers were always sad when Gæl had to go, but he always came back with treasure, and last summer he even got her a new sister. Perhaps this time they would return with a little niece or nephew, like Finn and Anni's babies. "All will be well."

It was not until the next afternoon, when Pósy saw Margaretha retrieve her white wedding dress and necklace of gold, that she realized what the journey could truly mean.

"I told you I should have hidden her dress," Pósy said, turning her fierce eyes on Gæl. "I told you she would fly away!"

The little girl turned to run, but Gæl caught her in his arms before she reached the door. "Put me down!" she sobbed, kicking her spindly legs in the air. "Let me go!"

Margaretha rushed to their side, and put her arms around them both. "I am not flying away, Pósy," she told her, putting on a brave face even as she felt her heart break.

"I will bring her home, just like last summer," Gæl promised, leaning his forehead against Pósy's. "And when we come back… we will be a family. Is that not what you have always wanted? Margaretha and I will marry, and then she will truly be your sister."

"We can be a family _now_," Pósy implored through her tears. "Please do not go."

"There are people who need our help," Margaretha said, her own vision blurring. "Where I come from, bad people come to take children away from their families. They took Peeta's brother away from him. They took my mother and father away from me. We are going to defeat them, so they cannot hurt anyone ever again."

"You must be brave, Pósy," Gæl said. "If you are brave, that will give us strength. Do you understand?"

Pósy's lower lip quivered, but a new arrival caused her eyes to light up with hope. "Peeta!" she cried, holding out her arms to the blond who appeared at her door. "Please, Peeta, I need your help. Tell them not to go."

"I am sorry, Pósy," Peeta said regretfully. "I am going, too."

"What are you doing here?" Katnisse asked in a hostile tone. "I have said all that I needed to say to you."

"Perhaps," he said. "But I have not said all that I need to say to you."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Say what you have to say and be quick about it," Katnisse said brusquely, crossing her arms over her chest. "There are preparations I need to make, and I imagine you do, too."

"Bear with me, Katnisse," Peeta said, his heart hammering in his ears as he tried to recall everything he wanted to say. "There are many things I must tell you. But before I go into all of that..." He held up a bundle wrapped in linen. "I have made some bread for you and your family to share."

Katnisse scowled. "I have changed my mind. I do not want to try your bread after all."

"You do not mean that," he said, feeling stung. "I do not believe you."

"Who are you to question what I do and do not mean?" Katnisse eyed his arm ring coldly. "Freedom has made you bold, perhaps too bold for your own good. Speaking of which, I suppose congratulations are in order. Now that you are no longer a thrall, and have obtained passage back to Panym, perhaps you will find your beloved Delly again and make your famous bread and stew for her."

Róry was right; she _was_ jealous. "I loved Delly a lifetime ago," Peeta said. "I think of her with fondness in my heart, but no longer do I wish to marry her."

Katnisse rolled her eyes. "Of course you do not. You are a priest; you are not allowed to marry anyone."

_How can I make her understand?_ "Do you remember when you asked me what my god thinks of killing?" Peeta ventured. "In the spring, when I first started learning self-defense from the warriors."

"Yes." The shieldmaiden pressed her lips together in a thin line. "You said your god taught you to turn the other cheek. I am sorry, Peeta, but if this mission is to be successful, you will have to disobey that particular commandment."

"That is true," Peeta agreed. "I also told you that I questioned why my god let the evil deeds of men go unpunished, and that my doubts filled me with shame."

"Yes. You said you did not want to be a piece in some divine game. How ironic, seeing as tomorrow you shall become a piece in the games that mere men play."

"That is where you are wrong," he told her. "Tomorrow I sail with Lady Coinn because I have chosen to do so. For the first time in my life, I am making my own decisions, playing my own game. I realize now that God has not been neglecting me, my brother, or the people of Panym. The evil deeds of men went unpunished because other men, good men, looked away. Now that I have been freed, I can join the fight for justice. If this means I shall break a commandment or two along the way, so be it. I would rather ask for forgiveness, than continue to do nothing. It is a greater sin, I believe, to use my faith to justify inaction."

Katnisse remained silent for a moment. "That is what you came here to say?"

"There is more. I have been using my faith to hide from a great many things." Peeta took a deep breath. "I have been using my faith to hide from my own feelings for you. When I met you, I thought you beautiful. When you befriended me, I started to fall in love with you. I knew nothing could ever come of it. I was a slave, and in any case, only a great warrior like Gæl would make a suitable husband for you. But one by one, the obstacles fell. Gæl came to love Margaretha. Haymið came to free me. The only thing left now that I can blame for my inability to be worthy of you... was the vow I had made."

"How can you say that you are not worthy of me?" Katnisse said. "How can you say that you are not worthy of anyone? You are the kindest man I know, and you are brave in ways that no warrior ever could be."

Peeta smiled woefully. "You exaggerate. But now I know that the blame was misplaced. Now I know that in my desire to follow the letter of the law, I ignored the spirit of it. And the spirit of God is love."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I do love you, Katnisse. It means I am tired of hiding. It is time I stopped lying to myself and to God about the way I feel about you. I want to marry you, and have a family with you. There is no shame in it. I have made my peace with my faith and with what I feel for you. There are other ways I can serve God... perhaps better ways, too." Peeta looked at her hopefully. "Are you still angry at me?"

"That depends," Katnisse said. "Can I kiss you now?"

Peeta closed the distance between them. "I thought you would never ask."

* * *

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**A/N:**

Massive thanks to **The Knife Throwing Expert**, who helped me get inside Clove's head.

Berserkers were a special kind of Viking warrior who fought while in a rage-trance, possibly brought about by hallucinogens or other drugs. It's debated whether they went into battle bare-chested or wearing animal skins. I wouldn't put it past Jó to have attempted both. :)

White wedding dresses didn't come into fashion until much later, but Madge's Reaping dress is white, and my headcanon is that she had chosen to wear white to remind the Capitol that they were sending innocent children to their deaths. And, of course, white fits the swan maiden theme.


	14. Time

**NOTE: This is the aftermath of Chapter Twelve, from a Gadge-centric perspective. Covers the same time period as Chapter Thirteen.**

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**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**Time**

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So many things could change in the blink of an eye.

One day, four years ago, Gæl had waited with his brothers and his pregnant mother at the harbor, anxious to welcome the warriors back from the summer raids. In the eyes of the people of Tolv and their laws, Gæl was already a man: fourteen years old, six feet tall, and with an arm ring of his own. But, in that moment, he was just a boy eager for his father to come home.

Come nightfall, he was standing with Hallvard's sword in his hands, saying brave words about Valhalla to the skald's daughter as if they could ease the pain of losing the man who raised him. The man he desperately wanted to be.

Last night, Gæl kissed Margaretha for the first time under the northern lights, and just this morning they spoke of freedom and marriage. The overwhelming love in his heart made him feel invincible.

Then, for the second time in his life, a ship sailed into Tolv carrying nothing but bad news.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

No sooner had the door of the hall closed behind them, after Haymið dismissed the warriors and Katnisse asked to stay behind with Peeta, than the gravity of the situation truly began to sink in for Margaretha.

"Katnisse loves Peeta," Gæl was saying as he helped Margaretha up onto his horse. "I think she is telling him now."

Margaretha nodded mutely. She was happy for Peeta, but the knowledge that he would soon find love with Katnisse only added to the dread growing in the pit of her stomach.

Once upon a time, there were but two people in the entire world that Margaretha could honestly say she loved: Lady Magthilde and Lord Undersee, the only parents she had ever known. But since coming to the North, she had come to love what seemed to be a frighteningly large number of people.

Peeta, her first friend, the one who comforted her on the journey to Tolv, the one who unwittingly touched everyone's lives day after day with small acts of kindness and generosity. Hejsel, with her strength and fortitude, her patience with her children and her faith in what Margaretha could do. Róry, a troublemaker at first glance, but shrewd and observant underneath, making use of his cleverness to both torment and inspire those closest to his heart. Gentle Vik, who wanted to be a skald, and sweet little Pósy, the sister she had always longed for. Haymið, who loved her like a daughter and kept the memory of Maysilleigh alive all these years.

And, more than anyone else, more than she ever thought possible, Gæl. _Her_ Gæl, the most stubborn man who ever lived, the devoted son and brother, the one whose love gave her wings and whose touch made her burn like a thousand suns.

This rebellion would endanger them all.

In one swift movement, Gæl was seated behind her, his arm coming to rest naturally around her waist. By this time he had noticed the stiffness in her posture, and he rubbed his palms along the length of her arms in an effort to soothe her.

"I am afraid, too," he said, pushing her hair away so he could whisper in her ear. The way his breath warmed her skin made her writhe slightly, her head and her shoulder twitching towards each other as if to trap him in the crook of her neck. "But it is the right thing to do. I will fight this battle for you, for your people, and for your father and mother, who died before they could see their dream come true."

And with those simple words, he dispelled her doubts and renewed her resolve. She could face the danger if it meant the children of Panym never had to be given as tributes again. She could face her fears one last time, if it meant they could be vanquished forever. King Coriolan might have killed her parents, but the revolution was alive in every man and woman, Saxon and Northerner alike, who rose up to fight.

Overcome with emotion, Margaretha turned her head, grasping the back of Gæl's neck and crushing her lips to his. He responded eagerly, sliding his tongue into her mouth and matching her kiss for savage kiss.

The horse stomped restlessly, bringing them back to the present and causing them to pull apart to catch their breaths. "Not here," Gæl said, even as he dragged his teeth along the edge of her ear in a way that made her mewl in pleasure. "At home."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Once home, however, it was as if the universe had conspired to never leave them alone together.

Just moments after they went on their way, Katnisse thundered past on her own horse, not even looking back when Gæl called out to her. After reaching home, Hejsel and Gísla accosted them, seeking confirmation for what little information they had managed to pry from a tight-lipped Katnisse upon her own arrival.

"Tomorrow we will sacrifice a goat for the success of your mission," Hejsel said grimly. She looked at Gæl. "And to celebrate Margaretha's freedom."

They all slept in the new house that night, sharing the unspoken fear that the village would be ambushed like it was the day Anni's brother died. Hejsel stayed with the boys, while Margaretha found herself squeezed in between Pósy and Prim.

Margaretha laid awake, wondering whether she should get up and seek Gæl out, when she heard muffled sobs on the other side of Prim.

"Katnisse?" she called out softly.

The whimpering noises abruptly stopped.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

When Margaretha finally found the courage to extricate herself from Pósy's embrace and tiptoe out into the main room under the pretense of getting something to drink, she nearly tripped over Gæl sitting with his back against the wall.

"Careful, princess," he said quietly, getting up on his feet to steady her. "You might wake the others."

Even in the dim light of the fire, she knew exactly where to find his lips. "You have not called me that in a while," she whispered, the chaste nature of her kiss belying the ardent yearning he stirred in her.

Gæl smiled sadly. "Something made me remember. Do you want to take a walk with me?"

Margaretha nodded, her throat suddenly parched. "Lead and I will follow."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"King Coriolan must be stopped, and Lady Coinn's claim is our best hope for change," Margaretha told him, tilting her face up to search the night sky for another trace of the merry dancers. There was none. "I only wish there were a third option."

"Must the crown remain within the family?" Gæl ventured. They were strolling along the edge of his family's property, not too far away from both the new house and the old. She carried a torch to light their way while he kept his eyes and ears open for intruders, one hand always resting on the ax hanging off his belt. "Haymið defeated the previous jarl of Tolv, and we accepted him as our leader."

"It is the same in Panym, to some extent. King Coriolan and Lady Coinn's father himself usurped the throne from another. But Saxon kings wield power on a different scale from leaders in the North… there is much more at stake, and the king's supporters will not go down without a fight."

It had to be said. "_You_ could rule," Gæl pointed out. "You are part of the royal family, in a way. See, I have always called you a princess, and it seems I was right all along."

Margaretha let out a short laugh, pulling her cloak tighter against the cold. "Only if I had produced an heir, and could rule through my child in Lady Coinn's absence. Alas, for some reason I am unable to recall at the moment, I was not married long enough to do anything of the sort."

They walked in silence until Gæl could no longer ignore the question that was burning in his mind. "Lady Coinn said something earlier," he said carefully. "She said you were a woman after her own heart. What does she mean?"

He tightened his grip on her suddenly clammy hand as Margaretha collected her thoughts. "I think… I think she saw you, and assumed I was playing the game she herself plays so well," she said slowly. "Twice, Lady Coinn has found men to feed her ambition. She married Earl Heavensby because he was wealthy, and powerful in his own right. Perhaps she already knew, or correctly deduced, his appetite for rebellion.

"Then she took on a lover who could physically protect her should the earl's plans fall through. The man you saw by her side earlier, the older gentleman with the battle scars... he is her bodyguard, the one who stole her away from the wedding feast and saved her life. Lady Coinn would have him in her chambers whenever the earl was not there." Margaretha squeezed her eyes shut, temporarily freeing her hand from his so that she could dig her fingers into her temple. "She had the most to gain from the rebellion, yet she left the difficult work to people like her husband and my father. At first I gave her the benefit of the doubt—she is the king's sister, and it was too dangerous for her to be directly involved—but when I learned she was being untrue, well, I changed my mind. She can still be a great leader, for sure, but as a person... I have never forgiven her for her unfaithfulness."

She bit her lip and cast her eyes downward. "I suppose what I am saying is… maybe Lady Coinn saw me, saw you with me, and thought… surely I could not have survived on my own. Surely I am alive because… because I warm your bed at night."

Gæl drew her into his arms, burying his nose in her hair. He did not speak. He only stood there, breathing in the scent that made him want to hold on to her and never let go.

"You do not doubt me, do you?" Margaretha said, worry creeping into her voice. "If that is what Lady Coinn thinks, she is wrong. I am not with you because I need you to survive, just as you said you are not freeing me only because you want to marry me. I love you, Gæl. Even… even when I thought your heart belonged to another, I was already starting to fall."

He pulled away just far enough to look at her in surprise, without releasing her from his embrace. "When was this?"

"The harvest feast, when you asked about my family. No man was ever interested in what I had to say before, nobody except Peeta whom I have come to think of as a brother. Even Thome, in the one conversation we ever had, spent most of it telling me about life in the North and the games to look forward to at the midwinter festival. He did not bother to get to know me, not truly.

"I did not want to acknowledge my own feelings for you at first, even when Peeta noticed," Margaretha confessed, not able to meet Gæl's gaze. "It was as I told you—I could only admit it to myself in my dreams. I felt so foolish, realizing I had fallen for the first man who made the mistake of listening to me. I felt even more foolish, knowing that person wanted someone else. You loved Katnisse, Peeta loved Katnisse, everyone loved Katnisse."

So much wasted time. Gæl recalled his own advice to Katnisse, mere hours ago. _You live for each moment. You love with all you have._

"It is I who have been a fool," he said, stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb, coaxing her to look at him. If someone had told him last night that Margaretha could grow even more beautiful, he would not have believed him, and yet here she was. "If I had only known you were already starting to feel the same… If I had only gotten to know you sooner, instead of wasting so much time resenting you…"

This time, it was Margaretha who interrupted him, leaning forward and capturing his lips with hers. "Let us be fools together."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Margaretha knew what it meant when she felt Gæl's hardness against her belly, the same way she knew what it meant when the mere thought of his kisses left her aching and wet between her thighs. It was not the first time it had happened: certainly he had the same reaction last night, when she pressed the full length of her body against his as they kissed under the northern lights, and again just a few hours ago, when she felt him brushing against her lower back on the ride home.

The knowledge that she could affect _Gæl_, this warrior, this hulking mass of a man, in such a primal way made her dizzy with power. Emboldened, she broke away from his kiss, angling the torch downwards and putting just enough distance between them to give her a clear view of the way his clothes tented up over his groin.

"Sorry," Gæl panted, shaking his head. "I should not have—"

Margaretha looked back up at him, her tongue unconsciously darting out to moisten her lips. "Do—do you want me to touch you?" she dared to ask.

The way he held her gaze, eyes dark with desire, made her press her knees together in an effort to contain her throbbing center. "Do you want to touch me?"

She nodded, her heart pounding wildly with anticipation.

"You—you do not have to."

"I know. I want to, just the same."

"Do you want me to touch you?" Gæl asked huskily. The timbre of his voice alone was enough to rob Margaretha of her senses.

"No," she found herself saying. "I _need_ you to touch me."

The next thing she knew, she was being pushed back against a tree, and she could feel the rough, peeling bark through her cloak and her nightdress.

Gæl's lips were on her throat, kissing and nipping and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Margaretha bit her lip in agonized pleasure as his hands trailed down her shoulders, skimming lightly over her sensitive breasts, before coming to rest on her hips. His strong fingers went to work, kneading the soft flesh there until she moaned.

"Damn this dress," he muttered under his breath.

"Take it off," she whimpered, growing more and more reckless with each passing moment. "Take all of me."

Her words gave him pause and he slowed his pace, leaning his forehead against hers. "Are you sure?" he asked, looking deep into her eyes. "I can stop anytime, if you decide you are not ready, if you do not want me in that way..."

Margaretha seized his face in her hand and silenced him with a kiss. "You know as well as I how much I want you. If you stop, Gæl Hallvardson, I will kill you myself."

He gave a shout of laughter, sweeping her off her feet quickly and easily, as if he had done so countless times before. "Far be it from me to deny my princess her every desire."

"I shall hold you to that," she warned darkly, perfectly mimicking his usual scowl as her arms snaked up around his neck.

"You will find, my love," he told her as he carried her off, "than I am a man who keeps his promises."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

The door to the old house was locked, but Gæl produced a key from his belt.

"Did you steal that from your mother?" Margaretha wanted to know, narrowing her eyes at him.

He smirked at her as he turned the key in the lock and the door opened with a satisfying click. "I made a spare. Vik said so himself—I can make anything."

She looked at him in a haughty way that drove him wild. "Tonight I intend to verify your claim."

Gæl carried her cautiously over the threshold, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the top of the doorframe. "I did not expect to do that until our wedding night, but I imagine it is good to have some practice."

"It is very good," Margaretha agreed as he closed and locked the door behind them. "We should practice as much as we can."

He laid her gently on top of the furs and pressed a quick kiss to her lips before taking the torch from her hands and using it to light the hearth.

"No lecture about fire-steels and striking-stones this time?" she teased him, raising herself up on one elbow.

"I was not really talking about fire-steels and striking-stones that time, either," he admitted as he sank back down beside her.

"I knew that," Margaretha said, playfully tapping imaginary dots down the middle of Gæl's forehead and down the bridge of his nose. When her finger reached the bow of his lips, he opened his mouth and drew it in. "What are you doing?" she gasped.

"I want to kiss all of you," he said, gliding his tongue over the tender inside of her wrist. "Every part of your body. I want to write my name on every last inch of your skin, so the world will know that you are mine."

"I would like that very much," she said. He felt her shiver underneath his lips. "But only if I can do the same for you."

They sat up and unclasped each other's cloaks, tossing them aside. Gæl removed his belt and ax, placing them within reach. He began to pull his shirt over his head, but Margaretha stopped him with a hand to his chest. "I do not think I did it quite right last time," she said coyly. "I think I can do it better now."

He groaned as she straddled him in her nightdress, his long legs between her knees, the searing heat of her core just hovering over the arousal that his clothes obscured but could not completely conceal. Every now and then she would shift her weight and cause momentary pressure on the tip; had they been naked, all it would take was one well-timed thrust to bury himself in her.

This woman was going to be the death of him.

Margaretha slid both hands under his shirt. "This is much better than the one you wore last time," she noted. "Nice and loose."

She took his shirt and lifted it, dipping her head so she could lap at his bellybutton and trace the center line of his stomach with her tongue. He watched her with half-closed eyes, feeling his muscles contract, feeling himself grow harder and harder still. She pressed her lips to one nipple, then the other, before pulling his shirt off completely.

She looked at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Much better than last time," he agreed.

Margaretha cocked her head to one side. "Now that I think about it, however, I did like how wet you were. It is a shame we could not replicate that aspect of it tonight."

"I will show you wet," Gæl growled, pulling her down onto his lap. Even through their clothes, she gasped at the contact but quickly settled into it, grinding into him with a sensuality he would never have imagined her to possess. Determined to see more of this side of her, he found the hem of her ankle-length garment and ran a finger up her leg: from the back of her calf, behind her knee and then over and diagonally across her thigh. Soon he was brushing the soft hairs at her apex, and from there he easily found the place where she was already slick and parted for him.

When she cried out and writhed against him, he knew he had found the most pleasurable part of her, and he stroked it reverently until her entire body began to convulse and he had to clamp his hand against her mouth to muffle the onslaught of her moans.

"Oh, my _god_," Margaretha whimpered from where she was draped limply across Gæl's chest.

"The best is yet to come," he informed her smugly.

Her eyes flashed and he congratulated himself on tapping into her competitive nature. She quickly climbed off him, hooked her fingers around the waistband of his breeches, and started yanking them down.

"You said you were not going to help me with my breeches," Gæl could not resist reminding her.

His erection sprang free and Margaretha sat back on her heels, eyes wide, one arm outstretched but not daring to make contact.

He felt a slight pang of disappointment, but he captured her hand and nuzzled it. "You do not need to do anything," he reassured her.

"I want to," she said plaintively. "I want to make you feel as good as I do."

He made a rumbling sound deep in his chest when she touched him, discovering the pearl of moisture that had already formed on the tip. She wiped it off and held her finger close to her face so she could inspect what she had retrieved.

Gæl could hardly believe it when she licked it off her finger. "How does it taste?"

Margaretha smiled deviously. "Like you."

And then her hot mouth was on him, her tongue running up the shaft and swirling around the head. He clenched his jaw shut, but it was too good to stay silent for much longer. He threw his head back and hissed. "Hel's teeth."

She regarded him critically. "Teeth?"

"It is just an expression," he clarified hurriedly.

"Tell me what you want me to do," she said, her voice sincere. "I want it to be good for you."

"It is," he assured her. "This is everything I have dreamed of and more. _You _are everything I have dreamed of and more."

A blush creeped up Margaretha's neck to her cheeks, and the sight inspired Gæl to finally find out how deeply flushed she was underneath her clothes.

She closed her eyes in bliss when he palmed her breasts through her nightdress. They were unbound for the night, he could tell from the way their weight settled in his hands, and from the instantaneous way her nipples hardened at his touch. His fingers shook slightly as he untied the strings that held the front of her dress closed, widening the neckline until he could slip the entire dress off one shoulder and then the other.

He nudged her dress down slowly, taking note of each mole and freckle that dusted her upper chest, reveling in the knowledge that every time she blushed she was also turning pink in places only he was privileged to see. Another moment more and he began to uncover the swell of her breasts, making his heart beat even faster. Soon she was naked to the waist, and he felt himself twitch when he saw the curve of her hips and the places he had touched just minutes ago. Finally, he slid the dress all the way off, and he bade her to recline on the furs while he sat back and looked at her in wonder.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked shyly.

"I love all of you," he answered honestly. "You are so beautiful."

Even now Gæl could not believe that she was real, all scent and soft flesh and smooth skin. There was only one way to know for sure.

Margaretha arched her back and sighed happily when he took her nipple into his mouth. "_Yes_," she said, running her hands through his thick hair, urging him to kiss her harder. He came up for air and then proceeded to lavish the same attention on her other breast, licking and sucking, even as he maneuvered himself between her thighs.

He hovered over her and made one last entreaty. "If you have any doubt whatsoever..."

"Please do not make me wait any longer," she pleaded, hooking her legs around his hips, crossing her ankles to keep him there. "I am already yours, body and soul. When the rebellion is over, we will either be married or dead. Either way, it does not matter. If you put a child in me tonight, I will love it and cherish it forever, just as much as I love and cherish you."

Her words flooded his heart with so much joy, he feared that it might burst.

Gæl entered Margaretha slowly, carefully, though she was so wet he suspected he could have plunged straight inside and it would not have mattered. His vision turned white as he felt her walls stretch and then close around him. He thrusted deeper, as deep as he could go, marveling at how well they fit together. As if they had been making love to each other for thousands of years. As if they would be making love to each other for thousands more.

She moaned his name and he drove into her harder, faster, claiming her, marking her as his, now and for all eternity.

They came together, her body clenched tightly around him, taking all the seed he had to give, his happiness so absolute that for a few brief moments he could see stars.

"I love you," she whispered, her eyes shining.

"I love you," he said, kissing the tears from her wet cheeks.

Even though they were on the verge of war, Gæl felt a peace settle unto him.

"We will live to see the end of this rebellion," he said, placing her hand over his heart so she would know he meant every word. "We will grow old together, surrounded by our children and grandchildren. Even after we die, we will meet in the next life, and the next, over and over again, until the end of time. Our story will never end. That is how much I love you."

"Do you swear?"

"I do swear."

* * *

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**A/N:**

This has been discussed a lot on Tumblr by awesome human beings like **hawthornewhisperer**, but it bears repeating: consent (and safe sex!) is important. Even in fanfic.

There are so many amazing Gadge stories out there right now. As Floki says on _Vikings_: "the gods love my ship!"

Today's trivia: Um... Vikings went commando a lot. Underwear didn't really seem to be a thing unless you were a Norman Viking (in Normandy, France). I think I'll save the rest for next time and go lie down now. :)


	15. Sacrifice

**WARNING: animal sacrifice.**

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**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**Sacrifice**

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Death begets life; from blood sacrifice does wisdom flow. So it has been from the beginning of time, when Odin and his brothers slew the jotun Ymir, fashioning the earth from the frost giant's flesh and creating the oceans from his blood. When Odin plucked out his eye in order to drink from the well of wisdom. When he pierced himself with his own spear, and hung from the world tree Yggdrasil for nine days and nine nights, until the knowledge of runes was revealed to him.

So it has always been, and so it shall always be. If the All-Father himself shed blood and made sacrifices, in order to gain greater things than what he lost, should men not do the same?

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

A light snow was falling.

"We make this offering to you, Odin, and beg you to heed our prayers," Hejsel intoned, as she stood over the altar where the sacrificial goat lay. "Guide our men and women on their journey, and gird their loins for battle. Give them victory, that they may return and praise you, or give them an honorable death, that they may dine in Valhalla with you and your chosen warriors."

With one precise motion, she slit the animal's throat, sending forth a steady stream of blood that she directed into a sacrificial bowl. She then dipped a bundle of fir twigs into the bowl and went to each person in turn, sprinkling them with the blood.

Gísla performed the next sacrifice, repeating Hejsel's entreaty, invoking the gods to protect Tolv and the families that would be left behind while the warriors went on their mission.

And then it was Margaretha's turn.

The goat was heavy in her arms, and she could barely hear her own thoughts over the din of its frenzied bleating. She struggled to maintain her balance as she made her way to the front, a feat made doubly difficult by the animal trying desperately to squirm out of her grasp, and by the ground that was already slippery with blood.

Once at the altar, Róry helped her bind the recalcitrant creature fast. Unlike the others, this goat had a collar around its neck. Unlike the others, it would not die of a slit throat.

Róry handed her an ax, and Margaretha wrapped her cold fingers around the smooth, worn wood of the handle. She turned it over in her hands, watching the afternoon sun glint off its freshly sharpened edge. She had killed animals before, and she had handled an ax many times, but never like this. Her pulse raced as she looked into the goat's wide eyes. _Do not be afraid,_ she thought, to the animal as much as to herself. _I will honor you with a swift and merciful death._

She turned her head slightly and found Gæl standing next to Katnisse and Peeta. He nodded solemnly.

In her mind she could hear her mother's voice. _Be brave, little bird, _Lady Magthilde whispered._ This is only the beginning._

"I sacrifice this animal to Odin, and Frigg, and all of the gods and goddesses," Margaretha said, her voice strong and steady. "Let my bound self die and, with it, a life of freedom begin anew."

It was as if time had stopped. Though the air felt heavy around her, she herself was as light as a feather. She could see herself clearly, as if she had stepped out of her own body to observe her own actions. There she was, pale and blonde and slender, swinging the ax back and bringing it down upon the goat's neck with all her might, decapitating the animal in one clean stroke.

Margaretha squeezed her eyes shut as the creature's warm, viscous blood sprayed onto her face. Her heightened senses detected and amplified every sound. Blood gurgling out of the goat's throat cavity. Blood flowing into the deep grooves that were carved into the wood of the altar. Blood trickling down and dripping into the sacrificial bowls on the ground.

Only when the goat's cries faded into oblivion did she dare look once more, just in time to witness the light in the creature's eyes turn into darkness forever.

She reached out, aware of every ragged breath she took, and retrieved the bloody collar from the severed head. This, she presented to Gæl with crimson-stained hands.

"With this, I end my servitude," she declared. There was a metallic taste in her mouth. "My bound self has passed away."

He accepted the collar, his hands lingering over hers. He touched his arm ring as he responded, his eyes and voice filled with emotion. "A life of freedom begins anew."

Margaretha returned to the altar and retrieved one of the bowls from the ground in order to repeat the ritual that Gæl and Katnisse's mothers had performed. She walked down the line, sprinkling each person once more: Gísla, Prim, Róry; little Pósy holding on to Vik and Hejsel's hands tightly; Peeta, Katnisse, and Gæl.

After Margaretha finished sprinkling Gæl, he dipped his fingers into the bowl and dragged them down across his face, leaving trails of scarlet in their wake.

"I have another matter to bring before the gods," he said, clasping her bloodied hand in his. All around them, snow was falling, swirling in nearly invisible patterns, going wherever they were being taken by the wind.

Margaretha knew what he would say next. She had known the moment Peeta had come to speak with Katnisse, unexpectedly but fortuitously bringing the number of free men and women under their roof to six.

Gæl looked into her eyes as he uttered the words. Margaretha could see the snowflakes settling on his long lashes, melting as she herself so often did under the intensity of his gaze.

"We declare ourselves witnesses that you, Margaretha, do bond yourself to me in lawful betrothal"—at this, Prim gasped—"and with taking hold of hands you swear to fulfill and observe the whole of the compact between us, which has been notified in the hearing of witnesses without duplicity or cunning, as a real and authorized compact."

He gave her hand a small squeeze as they performed the handsal in front of their family and closest friends. _Once it is made, there is no turning back._

Throughout all of this, Pósy had been standing quietly and courageously, as Gæl had asked her to do. She would bury her face in Vik's side whenever blood was spilled before her, but she did not cry. Margaretha could hardly believe that this was the same little girl who sobbed openly at the thought of her flying away just an hour ago. Perhaps it was because, as young as Pósy was, she already knew the difference between the certainty of death and the possibility of loss, and she knew which one of the two was worth her tears. _So this is how the children of the North learn._

The rituals thus completed, Gæl knelt in front of his sister, and joined the little girl's hand with Margaretha's as well as his own. "Now Margaretha and I are sworn to each other, in the eyes of the gods and the law," he told her. "Do you know what that means?"

"You are going to marry?" Pósy ventured in a small voice. "I knew that already."

"Yes, but more than that," Gæl said. "It means we will watch over each other, and bring each other home to you. We have made a promise and sealed it with a handsal. And once there is a handsal…"

There was the barest hint of a smile on Pósy's lips. "There is no turning back."

There was never any turning back, not for Margaretha. She shivered as she thought back to the night before, remembering tangled limbs and blissful moans, the all-consuming desire to touch and be touched, the warmth in her womb when Gæl filled it with his seed. Would she be with child soon? Even today, on the eve of their journey, the prospect filled her with hope, not dread. Not when there was the promise of another child to grow tall and strong like her beloved. Another child with the dark hair and grey eyes of Gæl's family, perhaps, or the blonde hair and blue eyes of Margaretha, Magthilde, and Maysilleigh. A child of the North, but also—and at this, her breath hitched in her throat—a child of Panym.

_A free Panym._

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Will it be like this?" Margaretha whispered to Gæl that night, as Pósy and Vik lay sleeping between them in the private room. "When we are married?"

It had not been their intention to change the sleeping arrangements yet again, but Pósy had refused to let either of them go, and then Vik had crawled in with the lyre and insisted that Margaretha play him a lullaby. Hejsel had looked scandalized until Róry—shockingly helpfully—reminded her that not too long ago, she had wanted Gæl to stay in the thralls' quarters with Margaretha and Peeta. In the end, the former shieldmaiden had to acquiesce, on the condition that Róry and Prim stayed on opposite sides of the sleeping platform in the main room. Katnisse, who had been restringing a spare bow—and who had been humming to herself since Peeta left—nearly broke her weapon in two upon overhearing.

"Not all the time, I hope," Gæl said. Pósy's leg lay across his stomach, making him afraid to breathe too deeply, while Vik was positioned just a little too close to Margaretha's chest for his liking. There would be no running off to the old house tonight. "I will love our children more than life itself, but there are good things to be said about privacy."

To kiss would be to risk waking Vik and Pósy, so Margaretha squeezed Gæl's hand instead. "Tell me about weddings in Tolv."

Where would he start? "It would be on a Friday, to honor the goddess," he began. "We would each be taken to separate bath houses, to wash away our status as an unmarried man and woman. People would endeavor to give us advice about… well… marriage. Raising a family. Sex." From what he could tell, it was mostly about sex. He shuddered slightly, recalling Finn's stories of his own wedding, the details of which Gæl had not been spared.

He went on to explain the three parts of the bride-price, which under other circumstances his family would have had to negotiate with Margaretha's. He talked of the animals that could be sacrificed—a goat for Thor, a sow for Freyja, a boar or a horse for Freyr. Finally, he told her of the exchange of rings, and the exchange of swords, swords that they would hold in trust for their children until they too were married.

"While we are on the subject of swords," Gæl said, "perhaps we could visit your childhood home—after the rebellion, of course—and retrieve one of your father's for the wedding."

"He did not have much use for swords," Margaretha admitted. "He had but the one."

"One is enough. One is perfect."

"I will see if I can find it." She shifted under the furs and sighed. "Gæl…"

"Yes?"

"There is one more secret you need to know about me."

Gæl listened in disbelief as she told him about Haymið and Maysilleigh, the jarl's reasons for placing Margaretha in Gæl's care, and the question Haymið had asked of her at the harvest feast.

"I am sorry I did not tell you sooner," she said sincerely. "But it is not entirely my secret to tell. I do not wish to cause discord between Haymið and Eyfri. In any case, it does not matter. It can never be proven or disproven. Everyone who knows the truth is dead."

"That is not true," Gæl said. "There is still someone who might know. Someone who might have had your parents' confidence. Or, at least, someone whose husband did."

Margaretha looked at him in realization. "Lady Coinn."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

They were up well before dawn.

Margaretha suddenly became self-conscious. "Should we get dressed here?" she asked, looking apprehensively at Pósy and Vik still sleeping soundly underneath the furs.

"You can stay here," Gæl said. "I will get dressed in the old house. Ask Katnisse if you need help."

She nodded. "I will come to you when I am done."

He did not dare think what that could mean.

At the old house, Gæl had just put on a leather tunic and was contemplating the merits of a newly acquired mail shirt when a gust of cold air announced Margaretha's arrival.

"That was faster than I expect—" he was saying as he lifted his eyes to look at her.

How could he not have fallen for her at first sight?

Margaretha's wedding dress was not the pristine white it once was, that was for certain. The final few inches of her skirt, down to where the hem swished along on the floor, were permanently dyed a reddish brown from being soaked in pools of blood. That was something not even Hejsel's washing expertise could have reversed. And the dress fit differently as well: ever so slightly tighter around the arms and looser around the waist, testament to the hard labor and simple fare of her new life in the North.

But, whatever the dress looked like or however it fit, it was the woman underneath that took Gæl's breath away. They had washed each other's hands and faces the night before, scrubbing off the dried spatters of blood from the sacrifices, and now Margaretha looked like she had never been dirty in her life. Her complexion glowed with health and love; her blue eyes were brighter than he had ever seen. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like a shining river of gold. And her _smile_, so shy and so sweet and so sensuous all at the same time, the smile Gæl knew was reserved just for him.

Perhaps it _was_ his intention to win Margaretha, all along. Maybe he was just not aware of it at the time, but perhaps he had already been drawn to her. Perhaps he targeted her bridegroom for reasons other than his ridiculous beard. If he had only known, he would never have let Cato lay a hand on her. If he had claimed her right then, Thome would never have thought to buy her. Gæl could have married her straight away, and Margaretha would never have been a thrall. But he had been so blind, so despondent over the possibility of losing Katnisse to Peeta, that he could not see the love that was in front of him all this time.

And perhaps Gæl had spoken the words out loud, or perhaps Margaretha was so attuned to him that she could read his mind, because just then she shook her head. "We met the way we did for a reason," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders. "It taught us patience and humility. It taught us to value freedom, and to value life. Without those lessons, perhaps we would not be able to love as deeply as we can and do love now."

Gæl grasped her hips and pulled her to him, a little more roughly than he intended, but he could see from the way her pupils dilated that she enjoyed it. "We need to be quiet," he told her softly, and she nodded. "And quick."

"What about my dress?" Margaretha whispered back.

"We shall have to work around it."

Gæl put his hands on her waist and lifted her up, depositing her on top of a table. "For the love of… how many skirts does this dress have?"

Margaretha clapped her hand against her mouth to stifle her giggles.

"This is no laughing matter," he said sternly.

He deduced that the quickest way was to start from her feet and follow her legs all the way up. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and pulled her leggings down.

Margaretha's creamy thighs clenched around his head when Gæl plunged his tongue into her silky folds. She was so _wet_, so intriguingly velvety smooth, so responsive to every little thing he did. When she arched her body, he seized the opportunity to run his hands all over her round bottom and pull her even closer. Her head lolled back and she had to grasp the sides of the table to keep from falling as he licked her up and down, hungry for more.

"Enough," she panted. He loved the dangerous look in her eyes whenever she was like this. "I need you inside me."

Margaretha kissed him frantically when Gæl rose up to meet her lips, tasting her own juices on his tongue. She reached down blindly for his breeches with one hand, tangling her fingers in his hair with the other.

He was as hard as a rock when she found him, and she grasped him at his base while she rubbed her slit up and down the underside of his shaft, mewling each time he grazed the little button that had caused her so much pleasure two nights before. Finally he could bear it no longer and, with a subtle change in the angle of his hips, slid past her entrance, finding himself once more in the place where he belonged.

This new position, with her sitting upright, changed everything. Gæl felt Margaretha's teeth sink into his shoulder, and it was as if his body had a mind of its own, ramming into her hard and fast until he came.

She reached her own peak soon after, and murmured adoring words into his ear as she floated back down to earth. "I am your sheath," she whispered lovingly. "Here rest, and find peace, and find home."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Gæl had been so enraptured by the sight of Margaretha in her wedding dress that he had almost forgotten why she was wearing it in the first place. That is, until his mother brought up the subject on the way to the harbor.

"I am not sure, either," Margaretha admitted. Gæl and Katnisse's entire families were with them, to send them off and to bring the horses and the carts back home. "Perhaps Lady Coinn believes we can gain access to something, or win someone's trust, if I dressed this way."

Gæl did not like her theory one bit.

Hejsel frowned, but instead of commenting, she directed her next question at her eldest son. "Will you wear the chain mail in battle?"

"It is very well made, but heavier than I remembered," Gæl said. "I thought I had time to get used to it, if I wore it to training in the spring. If I could assure myself that it would not significantly reduce my speed or agility, I will be happy to wear it."

"At least wear the helm," the former shieldmaiden advised. "It is iron, and it has a neck guard of chain mail that might make the difference between a scratch and a fatal blow."

Margaretha looked stricken. "Have you never worn armor before?"

Gæl shook his head. "Chain mail is expensive and rare, and almost impossible to scavenge in good condition. I could not afford it, or even a helm, until recently. Very few Northmen do. That is why we often fight in our normal, everyday clothes. From my first raid, to the day I met you, the most I had in the way of armor was leather."

"It was the same for me and Gæl's father," Hejsel told Margaretha. "Fighting unencumbered by armor has its advantages. However, I am glad that warriors nowadays have a choice."

Gæl and Hejsel were able to hold their tongues when it came to Margaretha's wedding dress, but Haymið was not. When the jarl saw it peeking out from underneath her cloak, he was livid. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his eyes blazing.

"It was not her idea, nor mine," Gæl said defensively. A small voice inside his head reminded him to be respectful; regardless of the truth of Margaretha's birth, Haymið was the closest thing to a father-in-law that Gæl would ever have.

"Then whose?"

"You are so kind to concern yourself over my daughter-in-law's attire, Haymið," Lady Coinn interrupted, insinuating herself effortlessly into the scene, with Sir Thread following close behind. Out of the corner of his eye, Gæl saw his mother's jaw clench.

"Forgive me, my good lady, but you are not her mother-in-law anymore," Haymið said, reverting to a diplomatic tone but unable to hide the anger in his eyes. "She is a free citizen of Tolv, and as jarl I believe I am entitled to know why this young woman is wearing a_ wedding dress _to a rebellion."

Lady Coinn took it upon herself to open Margaretha's cloak and inspect the dress from top to bottom. "_I_ think she looks lovely. Do you not agree? Few things are as bewitching, as alluring, as virgin purity."

"So I take it that this was your idea?" the jarl pressed further. "Might I remind you of our agreement to always consult with each other before making plans?"

"There are no plans as yet, Haymið," Lady Coinn informed him. "Merely the glimmer of a plan, and I needed to see the dress before I could pursue the idea further. I shall share all with you and Bogg shortly."

"And that idea would be… ?" Haymið trailed off expectantly.

Lady Coinn's eyes gleamed, but she did not answer him directly. Instead, she addressed Margaretha. "What do you know, my dear child, about the lady Maysilleigh?"

Gæl's blood turned to ice.

"She was my aunt," Margaretha replied in a neutral tone, the same tone she had employed when Lady Coinn asked her about the significance of the mockingjay. The expression on her face was unreadable. "My mother's twin sister. She died when I was just a baby."

"Did you know that, when she and her sister were your age, Maysilleigh ran away from home?"

"No, my lady," Margaretha said.

"Or that she returned a little over a month later?"

"No, my lady."

"I suppose you do not know why."

"No, my lady." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Well, then." Lady Coinn pursed her lips. "A generation before you became my daughter-in-law, Maysilleigh had been promised to become my sister-in-law."

From behind him, Gæl thought he heard Eyfri gasp.

"Of course, not truly," Lady Coinn amended. "Coriolan is just my half-brother, after all, and Maysilleigh was only to be his concubine. A vessel, if you will, to bear him children when his first wife proved rather… inadequate."

"No," Margaretha said. "My grandparents would never—"

Lady Coinn dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. "They did not. She volunteered."

Gæl touched Margaretha's back. "I am here," he reassured her softly. "Stay strong."

"But on the day that she was to be given to him, Maysilleigh escaped and ran away," the older woman continued. "That night, a band of pirates sailed up the coast and attacked the defenseless monastery where she was rumored to be hiding. It is said that was the selfsame night that a mockingjay came to love a Northman."

"What does this have to do with Margaretha?" Hejsel demanded.

Lady Coinn looked at the tall, handsome woman in surprise. "And who might you be?"

"I am her new mother-in-law," the former shieldmaiden said without hesitation. "And I must ask you to get to the point quickly."

"As I said earlier, this is but a glimmer of a plan," Lady Coinn said, unruffled. "I know that my half-brother has never recovered from the slight. He would have taken Magthilde in Maysilleigh's place, but she was already married and pregnant, and back then he had not yet sunk to the depraved depths in which we find him now.

"All this depends on what news our spies will bring," the lady went on, "but in my opinion we can capture Coriolan with minimal, if any, bloodshed, if we lure him with promises of the girl he believed would bear him a son, all those years ago."

"You propose to use Margaretha as _bait_?" Haymið asked angrily.

"I would _never_," Lady Coinn said indignantly. "I propose to use her as an assassin."

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

The ceremonies depicted here are loosely based on elements from the sagas and the laws.

Many of the norms around betrothal don't necessarily apply to Margaretha (a highborn former thrall with no living relatives to negotiate her bride-price). I will post/reblog my sources on sex and marriage in the Viking Age—including discussions on the legitimacy of children and the complications of thralldom—on Tumblr. It's pretty fascinating to see how much things have (or haven't) changed after all these years.

The word _assassin_, as derived from Arabic and Latin/Romance languages, didn't come into use until after the Viking Age. But political murders have been around for as long as politics have.


	16. Game

.

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**Game**

.

There is a game that the children of the North are taught from their youth: a game played with a wooden board marked out in a grid, a game they call "the king's table". They play it outdoors on balmy summer days, or by the roaring fires of the hearth throughout the long winter nights. But make no mistake: it is not a game that is played for idle entertainment alone. The king's table is the Northern child's battlefield, the place where fledgling warriors and shieldmaidens test their mettle for the first time.

"Each piece is a soldier," Haymið had explained last year, when he taught Peeta to play. "The attacking player has twenty-four soldiers, while the defending player has only twelve. The defender also has a thirteenth piece—the king—that he must protect and deliver to freedom."

"Strange," Peeta had said. "We also have table games in Panym, but never have I seen a board in which one player has more pieces than the other."

The jarl's lips had curled into a smile. "It is not my intention to once again claim the superiority of the North, but it would be remiss of me if I did not point this out. A real battle is very rarely fought on equal terms. One side will inevitably have the advantage, whether it is the advantage of numbers, of skill and knowledge, or of weaponry. What is stranger, a game that reflects this reality, or one that does not?"

The defending player's pieces were placed in the center of the board, while the attacking player's pieces surrounded them. Each piece could only move forwards or backwards, though there was no limit to how far one could travel. A piece could be "killed" or taken out of play, if it was flanked by two pieces from the opposing side.

"The four corners of the board are called castles," Haymið had told Peeta. "In order to win, the defending player's king must escape to one of these castles. Of course, the castles themselves cannot be occupied by the attacking player's pieces, otherwise the game would end rather quickly."

Peeta had remained silent for a moment, studying the pieces on the board, before he opened his mouth once more. "Even though the attacking player cannot occupy the castles, he should immediately surround them just the same. In doing so, he will block his opponent's way and prevent an easy victory."

"Very well done, Peeta," the jarl had said, visibly pleased. "Though you claim to be a man of peace, it seems that you are a natural at war."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Having once again seen Margaretha in her wedding dress, Lady Coinn had no qualms about allowing her former daughter-in-law to change into clothes better suited for the journey. "It is good to keep the dress clean, so that it will be perfect when the time comes to use it," the older gentlewoman noted.

"What do you think?" Haymið asked Gæl and Hejsel, once Margaretha was out of earshot and Lady Coinn had gone with Sir Thread to check on the provisions.

"There must be another way," Gæl said. "Darius spoke of how the mad king abused the young women who were offered to him as tribute. I would not want any of our women, least of all my betrothed, to risk receiving the same fate."

"Then you should not have let her volunteer," Hejsel said sharply. "You know she cannot fight in open battle, and the nature of the rebellion leaves no room for negotiation or diplomacy. Her role could only be that of a spy, or something like this. There is no alternative that is any less dangerous."

"She wants to help her people," Gæl said, feeling slightly stung. "Even if I were still her master, I could not, in good conscience, stand in her way. I love her, and must respect her decisions."

"Love is not always enough," Hejsel said. "If love could protect people from harm, your father would have lived forever."

Haymið was the one who broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. "Margaretha does not have to carry out her mission alone," the jarl said. "I will make sure that she is accompanied by someone I trust. But not you, Gæl. You will not be able to think clearly, and the king's men will be suspicious of you besides. However, the Saxons will not think twice of a shieldmaiden dressed as a lady-in-waiting. Katnisse, perhaps, or Jó."

Haymið left to speak with Bogg and Lady Coinn, leaving mother and son alone.

"Forgive me," Hejsel finally said. "I did not mean to speak so harshly, especially in front of Haymið. But you must understand—I love you and Margaretha both, and as noble as your intentions are, it is becoming increasingly clear to me that this rebellion is ill advised. I would rather that the two of you did not endanger yourselves unnecessarily, especially now that she may soon be carrying your child."

Gæl opened his mouth to speak, but Hejsel cut him off with a wry smile. "Do not think I have not noticed. I am sure you wanted to abide by what you once told me, but I am also sure that was no match for the looming threat of war. Besides, I would be lying if I said that your father and I waited until after marriage, ourselves."

By this time, Gæl had turned a rich shade of red. "Mother..."

Hejsel threw her arms around her firstborn. "Just come back safely and bring her—them—home," she whispered urgently in his ear. "It is not just Pósy who wants us to be a family."

"I will, Mother," Gæl vowed. "I swear before all the gods."

"And stay away from that man who is always with Lady Coinn," his mother added solemnly.

"You do not trust him, either?"

Hejsel pressed her lips together into a tight line. "I do not like the way he stares at you. If looks could kill, he would have slain you where you stood. I just have this feeling… there is something very strange about him, but at the same time there is something very, very familiar."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

It would take at least a week to reach Panym, and Peeta was grateful for the still winds and waters that required everyone on the ship to take up oars. Rowing warmed his muscles against the winter chill, and moreover he found himself seated next to Darius, with whom he had longed to speak ever since he arrived and shared his story with the people of Tolv.

"You are not from the North," the one-eyed man said, speaking in their native tongue, after Peeta introduced himself. "You carry yourself differently from the other men I have seen, from both Tolv and Tretten."

"Aye. I am a Saxon. I was captured last year, when they raided my monastery. I have since been freed. I serve Haymið as his steward."

"You are a monk?"

"I was. And I still pray to God, and worship Him in my own way. But I no longer consider myself bound by those vows."

"I do not blame you. I would not want to be bound by such vows when I am surrounded by such beauty." Darius glanced towards the women, who were passing the time until they were called in to row as well. Clove sat in silence, sharpening her knives; Lyme had engaged Margaretha in conversation. His gaze fell on Jó braiding Katnisse's long hair tightly around her head so that enemies would not have anything to pull or grasp. "The archer is your sweetheart?"

Peeta blushed. "Yes, but only very recently. How did you know?"

"The way you look at each other makes it clear." Darius chuckled. "I have not known a woman's touch for a long time, so perhaps I notice these things more quickly."

"I am afraid you will have to wait a little longer," Peeta replied. "Margaretha is engaged to be married to Gæl, and the shieldmaidens would kill you sooner than kiss you."

"They are a formidable sort, these women of the North."

"They enjoy many liberties that women, and sometimes even men, do not have in Panym. They can own property and divorce their husbands. They all know how to fight to some extent, in order to defend themselves and their homes while their men are away in the raids. You can be sure that those who have been chosen and trained as shieldmaidens are truly fearsome indeed."

"I have no doubt about it."

They rowed in silence for a few minutes, until Peeta summoned the courage to speak. "My brother had been given as tribute, like you. I wonder… I wonder if you would have known him."

"I am sorry to hear that," Darius said gravely. "It is a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy. What did he look like?"

"A little like me," Peeta said. "Wavy blond hair, blue eyes. The same build, though a few inches taller than I am. His name was—is—Josef."

"I remember a few young men with blond hair, though we rarely thought it necessary to learn each other's names," Darius said. "When was he taken?"

Peeta swallowed. "About a year and a half ago. He is the reason I became a monk. It was he who had been pledged to the Church, and when he was taken as tribute, I was sent to the monastery in his stead."

The look on the other man's face was a mix of pity and dread that Peeta never wished to see again. "A year and a half is a very long time for a tribute."

Peeta's blood ran cold in his veins. "I know," he said in reply, his voice barely a whisper. "But there is still hope."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Gæl knew it was bound to happen. Oarsmen sat in pairs according to their height, and the only other men who approached his size were Thome and Cato. But when his childhood friend sat down next to him, all of his muscles coiled themselves tightly as if preparing to strike.

Thome was the first to speak. "Finn told me the news," he said as he took up the oars. "I believe congratulations are in order."

Gæl grunted.

"Do not be like that, Gæl. You have won. She is yours, and not just as a thrall." Thome chuckled softly. "See? I was right all along about the way you feel for her. In fact, I dare say you should be thanking me for opening your eyes to the truth. If Lady Coinn had come to Tolv before you realized your love, she might have offered to buy Margaretha from you herself, and she would not have let a promise to your sister get in her way."

Once again Thome was right, and Gæl's stomach churned at the thought. Still... "Why did you volunteer for this mission?" Gæl wanted to know.

Thome looked taken aback. "Am I not allowed to help the people of Panym?"

"That is not what I meant," Gæl said in a biting tone. "The day we volunteered, you said you were not going to let me and Margaretha go without you. What did you mean by that?"

"This may be difficult for you to believe, but I do care for you both," Thome said. "After all is said is done, you are still my friend. And even though you have claimed her for your own, remember that I loved her first, and I want to make sure she is well."

_Do not speak to me about loving Margaretha first, _Gæl thought. _You saw her for her face and figure, not for the person she is. You cannot possibly love her anywhere as much as I do._

"I have long been jealous of you, my friend," Thome said, his voice suddenly heavy with emotion. "I have always stood in your shadow. Growing up, you always surpassed me in strength and cleverness. Many times, I suspected that the girls who came to me only did so to get to you. There is some resentment on my part, to be sure, that you are marrying the woman I want. Regardless, believe me when I say I have no ulterior motive for going on this mission."

A lump formed in Gæl's throat at the unexpected confession. "That is not true. All of those things that you claim… they exist only in your head. It is I who have been jealous of you. Your father is alive, unlike mine, and you have had an easier life."

Thome snorted. "We can argue all we want about who envied whom more when we were younger. However, I think we can agree that with your betrothal, you are certainly the one to be envied now. Nevertheless… what I said holds true. Though I cannot have Margaretha, I still want good things for her. I hope one day you will no longer be suspicious of my feelings for her. Perhaps one day you shall even be grateful."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"How long have you known Lady Coinn?" Margaretha asked Lyme, as they watched Jó work her magic on Katnisse's hair.

"A little over a month," the shieldmaiden from Tretten replied. She touched her short blonde hair absentmindedly as Jó's fingers expertly wove in and out of Katnisse's long, glossy locks. "She and Sir Thread had traveled to Éire, seeking mercenaries, and found our encampment. Somewhere along the way they had encountered Darius and taken him in. All three of them learned Norse, though Lady Coinn was the most clever by far."

"That she is," Margaretha agreed. Clever did not even begin to describe the lady Heavensby.

"What was it like to have her as a mother-in-law?"

"She and I did not interact a great deal. She… she had her own affairs, and scarcely had time for anything else. But she was intimidating, even then." The more Margaretha thought about it, the more grateful she was to the army of Tolv for liberating her from that life. She felt a pang of guilt for gaining so much happiness from something that had taken the lives of so many.

"I am glad that I am not married." Lyme stretched her seemingly endless legs out in front of her. Margaretha, though tall herself, had never met a woman as strikingly statuesque. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps she and Gæl would have a daughter who would grow up to be like Lyme. "It is difficult enough for me to imagine being bound to a man, not to mention being bound to his mother and family."

"Margaretha should not have a problem with that," Jó said, her mouth full of pins. "Gæl's family fell in love with her even before Gæl did."

"You are remarrying?" Lyme asked. Margaretha nodded her head in confirmation, even as she spied Clove silently rolling her eyes. "Congratulations. Better you than me."

"You sound like Katnisse used to," Jó cackled. "And look at her now."

"Jó, stop," the archer said, blushing.

"Do not be shy, Katnisse. Do not deny that you want to climb that man of yours like a tree. And you are ever so good at climbing trees." She finished one braid, tying it with leather, before moving on to the next.

"Jó!"

Jó winked conspiratorially at Lyme. "Our Katnisse here has done the impossible. She has seduced the Christian priest."

"I did nothing of the sort," Katnisse hissed. "And gods, do not speak so loudly."

"Well, if you ever want to, I have something that should help." Jó patted the pouch at her belt.

"I am not letting you anywhere near Peeta with your berserker mushrooms."

"You insult me, Katnisse. I have many kinds of mushrooms, not just the berserker ones."

"It has been a long time since I had those kinds of mushrooms," Lyme mused. "Not since the last Thing."

"Well, then, that settles it," Jó said. "Once this rebellion is over and won, we will celebrate with all the mushrooms the forests of Tolv have to offer. And perhaps then will my prophecy about climbing trees come true."

"I swear, Jó, the moment you show the slightest interest in any man in particular…" Katnisse stopped abruptly, and clapped both hands over her mouth as she began to laugh hysterically.

Jó tugged sharply on her hair, jerking Katnisse's head back. "It has finally happened. Your sexual frustration has driven you insane. I told you to take care of things yourself."

"What is wrong, Katnisse?" Margaretha asked, slightly alarmed at the uncharacteristic giggling of Gæl's normally reserved best friend.

Katnisse twisted around in her seat, her silver eyes gleaming. "Jó once said that the man who wanted to put a child in her would require an introduction from Odin himself."

Jó scowled. "And?"

The archer pointed up at the sails. "You thought the mockingjay was a raven, like Huginn and Muninn."

"I made a mistake," Jó said, even as Lyme began to smile in understanding.

"Odin has made his introduction," Katnisse declared, spreading her hands dramatically. "Darius the One-Eyed."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Soon, Haymið and Bogg revealed all they had discussed and negotiated with Lady Coinn.

"We will send spies ahead of us, of course," Haymið began. "The spies will report back on the number of soldiers at the king's disposal, and any fortifications we must know of in advance. Darius will take the lead, for he is familiar with the castle and its surroundings.

"Then, if the reports are favorable, Lady Coinn will come to call on her brother, with Margaretha in tow," Haymið continued. "Thread will accompany them, of course, as well as Clove who will pose as Margaretha's lady-in-waiting."

"Why not Katnisse?" Gæl asked. "Or Jó? There needs to be someone from Tolv in that party."

"We will need Katnisse's bow and Jórunnr's ax for other things," Bogg said. "But you have no reason to fear. Clove is deadly with her daggers, and even more dangerous in close quarters than she is on the battlefield."

_That is what I am afraid of, _Gæl thought. From across the ship, he saw the worried look in Peeta's eyes, and he knew the young Saxon was also less than satisfied with this outcome.

The two jarls continued to lay out the plans, dividing the warriors into the groups they would join, and outlining the goals of each. Finn and Peeta were assigned to the group that would rescue the tributes from the dungeons; Gæl and Katnisse, to the group that would face off against the king's army.

"The castle is far from the shore," Margaretha said. "How will the warriors make their way there without being seen? Even under the cover of night, their shields and weapons are too conspicuous. They will need to travel on carts and horses, and disguise themselves as ordinary peasants or townsfolk."

"We can steal carts and horses easily," Finn told her. "We will not need too many."

"We will not need to steal anything," Peeta said confidently. "I know a cartwright who will give us everything we need."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"It is Delly, is it not?" Katnisse said later, as she and Peeta played the king's table. "The one you intend to get the carts and horses from."

"Her father, yes," Peeta said, studying the shieldmaiden's face carefully. "He made all the carts for their farm and ours."

Katnisse kept her eyes on the board, refusing to meet his eyes. "We can get carts and horses anywhere. I do not understand why we have to get them from the girl you once wanted to marry."

"Why would we resort to thievery and violence if there are people who will give these things to us willingly?"

Katnisse did not know what she hated more: that Peeta was right, or that this perfectly logical explanation failed to diminish her jealousy. She tapped one of her pieces against the board angrily.

Peeta reached out and stilled her hand, covering it with his. "You silly, silly woman, you are the one I love."

She scrunched up her face. "Are you throwing my words back at me?"

"I thought you would like them," the blond said with a cheeky grin. "Do not be jealous, Katnisse. You have me." He pulled her hand towards him, pressing a tender kiss into her palm. "You have all of me."

_Do not deny that you want to climb that man of yours like a tree._ For a brief moment, Katnisse considered taking Jó up on her offer of the best mushrooms the forests of Tolv had to offer. Her face warmed at the thought and she immediately resolved to deny the moment ever happened.

Gæl and Margaretha were already sleeping together; she knew it. Katnisse remembered the faint sounds from the old house that morning—noises that she had pointedly tried to ignore and was only too happy that the others were not awake to hear. And then there were the marks on the former thrall's neck and collarbone that she had seen when a disgruntled Jó abandoned Katnisse's half-done braids and loudly offered to work on Margaretha's hair instead.

_They are engaged,_ Katnisse thought. _They are all but married already. _Whereas she and Peeta… how would their marriage talks even begin? Suddenly all the things that had allowed them to grow closer together—that he did not have any money or property to his name, that he had absolutely nothing at all to offer her family in the traditional sense—had become the very things that were keeping them apart.

It was not fair. It was not fair that Gæl could propose to a former thrall, and Katnisse could not, just because she was a woman, just because it was the man who was expected to provide for his wife. It was four years ago all over again, Haymið telling her mother to remarry immediately, Haymið telling her to find a husband at age _twelve_—

Peeta's lips were soft, the softest things she had ever touched. They were soft like Sægeirr and Unna's cheeks, like Prim's when she was born. Katnisse closed her eyes, tasting the stew on his mouth, breathing in the intoxicating smell of exotic spices she did not even know the names of.

"You think too much," he said, placing his hand on the nape of her neck, raising goosebumps on her skin. The game was all but forgotten.

"So do you," she told him, letting him coax her lips apart, luxuriating in the feel of his tongue exploring her mouth.

"We are well suited to each other," he breathed, in between kisses as fervent as a supplicant's prayers.

The words came out before she had a chance to think them through. "Stay with me tonight."

Peeta pulled away, and before he could say anything, she put a finger to his lips. "We will not do anything," she promised. "I just want to be with you. Stay with me, Peeta, please."

Was that desire in his beautiful eyes? Worry? Fear? Katnisse held her breath, afraid of what he would say, afraid that she had just exposed to him this brazen side of her that he might want nothing to do with.

"Yes," Peeta said. The word made Katnisse's heart swell with happiness. "Always."

* * *

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**A/N:**

The king's table refers to _hnefatafl_, a very cool, very old game similar to chess. (If you're a fan of Sir Terry Pratchett, a version of this game exists in the Discworld series as _Hnaflbaflwhiflsnifltafl_ or, simply, Thud.)

Huginn and Muninn are the names of Odin's ravens.

Assemblies in which disputes were resolved and laws were upheld were literally called Things. To this day, Iceland's national parliament is still called _Alþingi_ ("All-Thing").

The long, flowing hair of the romance novel Viking warrior wasn't practical in warfare. They would have trimmed their hair and even their beards in preparation for battle. This is also why Jó was braiding Katnisse's hair close to her head. She bailed before she could finish, but I imagine it to be the stereotypical milkmaid ("Heidi") style.


	17. Valkyrie

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**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**Valkyrie**

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The valkyries are known by many names.

They are known as the choosers of the slain, descending upon the battlefield to gather the greatest among those who had fallen. It is said that warriors would feel a light tap on their shoulders, and turn to see a handsome woman with wings on her helm, and in that moment they knew that they were destined for eternal glory in the company of the gods.

They are thought of as Norns, female beings who weave the web of fate, possessing the power to determine the fortunes of gods and men.

They are Odin's maidens, their armor and their shields so resplendent that when they ride to Asgard we see their reflections on earth as the northern lights.

Mead maidens, filling the drinking horns of those who dine in Valhalla, where the All-Father presided; and in Fólkvangr, where Freyja held sway.

Shieldmaidens, like the women-warriors on earth who rivaled them in courage and strength.

Wish maidens, with the ability to grant the desires of those who captured them or took away their feathered cloaks.

Swan maidens.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Onwards they sailed.

By day they rowed, their oars of oak cutting and slicing through the cold waters, each stroke bringing them closer to the kingdom of Panym. As the skies grew darker, their longboats hewed closer to the coast, and by nightfall they came ashore, pitched tents, and built fires.

It was at such times, having eaten the evening meal and having taken his fill of ale, that Finn brought out his lyre and sang the poems of the skalds.

_Blood rains from the cloudy web_

_On the broad loom of slaughter._

_The Valkyries go weaving with drawn swords._

_Spears will shatter, shields will splinter,_

_Swords will gnaw like wolves through armor._

By the third night Margaretha, at Gæl's encouragement, had learned the melodies and was playing along with Finn. By the fourth night, the ale had loosened Katnisse's tongue enough that she herself began to sing, her powerful voice soaring on high above the crackling flames and astonishing all those who heard her for the first time—which was to say, everyone except Peeta.

"Katnisse sings so beautifully," Margaretha whispered to Gæl when the song was over. "I admire her so. In fact, I am envious. Many times have I wished that I could be more like her."

"I have heard you sing with Vik and Pósy, and to my ears there is nothing sweeter," Gæl told her. "You are perfect just the way you are. Why would you envy Katnisse?"

Margaretha laid her head on his shoulder, and he responded by putting an arm around her waist and shifting closer to her on the sea-chest upon which they sat. His cloak was rough on her cheek; the ale was warm in her belly. "Katnisse is a skilled archer and a great warrior. She can fight alongside you in battle, and protect you in ways I never could. She is…" Margaretha searched her mind for an explanation. "She is like a valkyrie. With her arrows, she can decide the outcome of a battle. Her bow is the loom upon which the fates of men are woven."

Gæl chuckled, intertwining his fingers with hers. "And what of you?"

"I am…" Margaretha faltered. "I am no fighter. I can be a spy; secrets and mysteries are my armor. I can be a wife and a mother, and although nothing will make me happier… Sometimes I wish I were a different sort of woman. I would rather be a shieldmaiden, than… than to be seen as a swan maiden. Something to look at, something to claim, but nothing more."

"I see." Gæl looked at her thoughtfully. "You seem so fascinated by the valkyries. Do you not remember who is chief among them all?"

Margaretha fell silent, recalling the stories Hejsel told Pósy before bed, the wondrous tales that captivated even her. "Freyja, of course."

"Who is also…"

"The goddess of fertility. Beauty. Love."

"And she could fly," Gæl reminded her. "With the use of her cloak."

Margaretha's cheeks flushed. She felt like a small child who had only just begun to learn the simplest of lessons. "Her enchanted cloak of falcon feathers."

"And she was not the only one. Perhaps you have not yet heard these stories, but Kara, Brynhildr and her seven sisters… they were swan maidens, too." Gæl smiled. "Perhaps in Panym, a swan maiden is only seen as a prize: a woman who falls out of the sky to make a man happy. But in the stories I was told, the stories I choose to believe… it is not so. A swan maiden can be a wife and a mother, yes, but she can also be a shieldmaiden. A valkyrie. A goddess. Because all of these things are merely different aspects of the same woman… whichever side of you you choose to show the world, you are capable of all the rest. You do not have to be a certain sort of woman in order to matter." He brought her knuckles to his lips. "To me, you are everything, every kind of woman, and at the same time… the only kind of woman."

They were in full view of the others, of Thome and Haymið and Lady Coinn and Sir Thread, but Margaretha did not care as she sought out Gæl's lips with her own. His hand reached up into the hood of her cloak, wrapping around the nape of her neck that now laid bare after Jó had braided up all of her golden hair.

The last thing she saw before her eyes fluttered shut was the unreadable expression on Clove's face as she turned away.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

They reached Panym on the ninth day.

It was often the case that there would be someone, perhaps a fisherman or simply an unlucky peasant strolling along the shore, who would see the longboats from afar. Such a person would then have to be captured or killed, so that he could not alert others to the arrival of the Northmen. But, as it was winter, there was no-one to be seen, no-one to be found.

Katnisse gripped her bow tightly, glad she did not have to loose her arrows upon anyone so soon after her arrival. Haymið had said the Saxons would never see them coming, and she prayed to Thor that the jarl was right.

The first mission was to take place the next night, under the cover of darkness as they had discussed, once they recovered from the exhaustion of rowing. The small group of spies that Darius was to lead to the castle had now grown to accommodate others who were to go with Peeta to procure the carts and horses. For this new task, Katnisse volunteered immediately.

"I have to protect you," she told Peeta by way of explanation, though he knew as well as she did that it was not the whole truth.

The next night, Peeta took them straight to Delly's house—"I am not prepared to face my mother, nor my father or brother," he said—and bade them all to stand a few steps back as he knocked on the door of the farmhouse: timidly, at first, then rapping more sharply, more loudly, until the door finally opened a crack.

A pale, round face emerged from the darkness, holding up a lamp with which to see. "Yes?" the young blonde woman said. This much, Katnisse knew of the Saxon language.

The creases of concern on Peeta's forehead disappeared, and his face broke out into a broad grin. He leaned forward, placing his open palm against the door in a familiar, even intimate way that brought bile to Katnisse's throat. "Delly," he said, joy and relief evident in the sincerity of his voice. He said a few more words in their native tongue.

The young woman slammed the door shut in his face.

The former thrall looked at the others in bewilderment. "Try again," Darius suggested.

"What is happening?" Katnisse asked under her breath. In her mind she vowed to learn Peeta's language as well as Peeta had learned hers.

"He said it was good to see her again," the redheaded Saxon said. "That was all he managed to say before she closed the door."

Peeta raised his fist once more, but before he could make contact the door creaked open a second time.

"Peeta?" Delly said softly, her eyes wide and rimmed with tears.

"Yes," Peeta said. Darius spoke under his breath, quietly translating for the benefit of the others. "It is I. Please, let me in."

The door swung wide open. Before Katnisse could open her mouth to speak, Delly had flung her arms around Peeta, clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

"You are alive," the Saxon woman choked out, one hand on the back of Peeta's head, the other hand on his spine, pressing him close to her. "B-but they said the m-monastery… there were n-no s-survivors…"

"I survived," Peeta confirmed, stroking Delly's back to comfort her. "I am alive, and I am well."

Katnisse's ire was only slightly alleviated when Peeta pulled away, and she was less than pleased that he gave Delly a squeeze before doing so. "May we come in?" Peeta requested, gesturing to the warriors assembled around him. "I would like to speak to your father."

Delly looked at the others as if noticing their presence for the first time. "Who are they?" she asked, eyeing the sword at Thome's side fearfully.

"They are my friends," Peeta reassured her. "They mean you no harm. They are here to help."

She furrowed her brow, but she ushered them in. "I shall get my father."

Katnisse watched her disappear further into the darkness of the house as their party stepped inside. Delly was exactly as Peeta had described: blonde, apple-cheeked, all feminine softness and curves. Katnisse could not help but feel a twinge of envy as the other woman scurried away in her nightdress.

To put it simply, Delly was everything Katnisse was not.

"I suppose Peeta does not have a type," Jó observed with mock nonchalance.

Katnisse glared at her friend, jabbing her finger at Darius while the one-eyed man was otherwise preoccupied by surveying his surroundings. "_You_ do," she mouthed.

Jó was still peeved that her surrogate sister had found something, or someone, to tease her about, but that night she took it in stride, accepting it as a small price she had to pay in order to witness Katnisse seeing Peeta's former sweetheart for the first time. She pointed at the pouch of mushrooms hanging off her belt and raised her eyebrows up and down suggestively.

Delly's father was a large, stocky man, looking much like the way Peeta had described his own father. Like Delly, he too looked at the former monk as if he were a specter, and he too showed fear upon realizing that Northmen were in his home, but Peeta was quick to explain their mission. He introduced Darius, sharing the story of how he lost his eye at the hands of King Coriolan. He introduced the others: Jó, Holm, and Thome, who kissed Delly's hand as well as her mother's in the manner of the Saxons.

"And this is Katnisse," Peeta said, his hand finding the shieldmaiden's in the dim light of the fire. "She is the finest archer I have ever been privileged to see in action."

Katnisse smiled gratefully, her fingers finding the spaces between his.

"Peeta," Delly said, frowning at their joined hands. "Are you now one of them? What about your vows?"

"Panym is the land of my birth, and I am here because I wish to fight for its freedom," Peeta said. "But the North has become my home; its people, the family of my own choosing."

"King Coriolan is the real enemy, and if the Northmen are here to end his reign then they are friends of mine," the cartwright declared. "I will provide you everything you need, as long as it is within my power to give. But for now, stay the night, and I will send you off when the morning comes."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Clove had not spoken a word to anyone throughout the entire journey, save for Bogg and Lyme and—briefly—Lady Coinn. For this reason, Margaretha felt a strange kinship with the taciturn girl. At first, Jó had endeavored to include the younger shieldmaiden in conversation, but her attempts fell on apathetic ears and after a few tries the berserker shrugged it off in favor of meticulously inspecting Lyme's impressive array of axes, spears, and swords. Clove often rowed with Katnisse, who eyed her warily but was content to spend the days seated next to her in silence.

Margaretha knew better than to intrude upon the dark-haired girl's thoughts, and settled for occasionally sitting next to her at mealtimes and in front of the fire.

"I am not truly your lady-in-waiting, you know," Clove finally said in exasperation, the night they arrived in Panym. "Do not expect me to follow you wherever you go."

"I have no such expectations," Margaretha replied. "You appreciate solitude, and so do I. That is all."

The next morning, however, she wordlessly pressed a piece of bread and brown cheese into Clove's hand.

"What is this?" Clove asked, frowning.

"The bread is Peeta's, and the cheese is the best mistake I have ever made," Margaretha told her. "Try it."

When the shieldmaiden hesitated, Margaretha urged her on. "I would not poison you. I hope I will never have to poison anyone."

Clove bit into the bread and cheese, and although she stopped scowling, Margaretha could not tell if that meant she was pleased or displeased. "It is… different."

"It is an acquired taste," Gæl said, nudging Margaretha playfully.

Clove did not thank Margaretha, nor did she offer even the ghost of a smile, but she ate it all to the last crumb, and Margaretha counted that as a victory indeed.

Later that afternoon, Margaretha thought to ask Lyme about Clove, as the short-haired blonde taught her simple swordsmanship and self-defense. "She was born a thrall," Lyme said, parrying Margaretha's blow. The sword was heavy, but after months of grinding grain and nine days of rowing Margaretha was stronger than she had ever been before, and the weapon was beginning to feel natural in her hand. "Her mother was a captive from the East, but she was never freed, not before Clove was born, nor after."

"I am sorry… to hear that," Margaretha said, her breath ragged as she sidestepped the taller woman's thrust. She was adequate for a beginner, she supposed. She was neither quick nor elegant, nor did she have the raw power of many Northmen who seemed as if they had been bred for battle.

Margaretha knew she should not be talking while training, but still she continued. "I, too… was a captive, but… I was very fortunate. Haymið took an interest in my well-being, and… gave me to a family who was… kind to me."

She backed away to try to find a weakness, some part of Lyme's body that was less protected or easier to target, but there were none to be found. "But Clove is free now, correct? How did she win her freedom?"

Lyme hesitated, putting her sword down and leaning on it before she opened her mouth to speak. "She killed her father," she said solemnly, nodding towards the young woman in question. Together she and Margaretha watched from a distance as Clove hurled her knives at a tree with frightening speed and accuracy. "He had been mistreating Clove, and one day her mother died at his hand. So she took her revenge, and killed him. Ordinarily, a thrall who killed a free man would have been executed immediately, but Bogg recognized that she had been acting to defend herself and to avenge her mother, so she was not punished. In fact, he saw her potential, and had her trained as a shieldmaiden. That was a year ago, when she was barely fifteen." She sighed. "Clove has had a difficult life. She does not trust anyone, perhaps not even me, and certainly none of the men. And you cannot deny that she can be rather frightening. But, even so, I admire her… she is a fighter in every possible way. She is bowed but not broken. She endures."

That night, Cato surprised Gæl and Margaretha by walking to where they lay curled in each other's arms in front of the fire.

The handsome blond berserker had his thumbs hooked on his belt, and the bruising around his eye was just beginning to fade away. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"This apology has long been overdue, but upon hearing of your betrothal I knew I could not delay it any longer," he began. "I am sorry, Margaretha, for laying a hand on you when we came to your wedding feast… I was in a rage-trance, you see, as I often am in battle."

"That is a reason," Gæl said, his arms tightening around Margaretha's waist. "But it is not an excuse."

"Aye. Berserker mushrooms or no, what I did was wrong," Cato affirmed. "I am sorry. I did want you, Margaretha, and for a time I continued to want you, and considered fighting Gæl for you. But now… you have my word that neither of you have anything to fear from me. You are lucky to have each other. And Gæl… I wish you nothing but the best. Know I will have your back in battle."

"Thank you," Gæl said, after a few moments in stunned silence. "That means a great deal to me."

Cato nodded, running one hand across the shaved side of his head. "I, well… good night."

"Good night," Margaretha echoed, watching Cato's broad back as he retreated and joined a small group of warriors from Tolv and Tretten on the other side of the camp.

The men clapped his back and offered him more ale, which Cato appeared to refuse. His eyes flickered back towards them, and Margaretha recognized the intense longing in his gaze.

"I am not sure whether to believe him," Gæl said. "I do not like the way he looks at you."

Margaretha had a hunch, and it was confirmed with a quick glance over her shoulder. "He is not looking at me," she said, the realization making her smile. "He is looking at Clove."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

When the spies returned from the castle, Haymið and Bogg assembled the warriors once more.

"It is as I remember," Darius reported. "There is a changing of the guards every noon and midnight. That is when we should strike—and preferably on a Sunday, when all are gathered to worship. It is as Lady Coinn says: the king's men are not as numerous, for many of their number are only called to serve during the summer. We counted two hundred."

_Two hundred,_ Margaretha repeated to herself, her heart sinking. There were barely even seventy of them, with the volunteers of Tolv and Tretten combined.

"Are there no rebels remaining in Panym from among those that Earl Heavensby had recruited?" she asked.

"Many of them were at your wedding, and most of those—if not all—were slain," Lady Coinn said pointedly. "There are some we can still find, but we should proceed with the knowledge that we are vastly outnumbered. That is why we should proceed in stealth, and catch them unawares."

"When do you propose to bring Margaretha to the king?" Haymið wanted to know. "She must be in place before we attack."

"Soon," the lady replied. "Within another day or two. We will make our preparations, before our plan is set in motion."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Haymið had made sure to give them separate tents throughout the journey, even going as far as to place his own bed roll and sleeping sack next to Gæl's in one of the men's tents, but on that final night Margaretha's beloved found a way. Even Katnisse and Jó crawled out of their small, shared tent willingly, instead of having to be chased away or plied with promises of future favors, knowing that Gæl and Margaretha needed to be together one last time before she was taken to the king.

There was no need for words. As soon as they were alone Margaretha grasped the collar of Gæl's tunic and laid back on her bed roll, pulling him down on top of her. In between kisses they managed to take off their clothes, leaving them haphazardly strewn wherever they chose to fall, and in no time at all he was sheathed inside her: a sword in its scabbard, a fire-steel with its striking-stone.

"Shh, my love," he whispered, covering her mouth with his before her cries betrayed where he was, then was not, then was again. She groaned against his lips, her nails scratching down his back, her hips bucking up and down with need. "This moment is yours and mine alone, and no-one else needs to hear."

Gæl put his arms around her and rolled their bodies so that she lay on top of him, and though they had never before made love this way Margaretha instinctively knew what to do. She held herself up, arms outstretched and palms laid flat on his muscled chest, throwing her head back and biting her lower lip sensuously to keep from screaming each time she ground into him. Her carefully arranged braids came undone one by one until she had the appearance of a wild woman.

At first Gæl was content to watch her bare breasts and the hypnotic way they moved in front of him, but then Margaretha stretched out her spine and brushed one perfectly round nipple against his chapped lips until he drew it into his mouth and suckled it like a babe. At the same time his hands ran down her body, all the way down to the fullness of her bottom, digging into the soft flesh there and pushing into her even deeper, matching beat for passionate beat the cadence with which she rode him.

She climbed, and peaked, and peaked once more, before his own universe exploded before his eyes.

Margaretha laid her head on Gæl's chest, her ear pressed to his heart, rejoicing in this small reminder that—for now—they were alive and together.

She raised her head and reached underneath her bed roll, unearthing her medallion of gold. She put it on Gæl's chest, the metal circle cool on his skin, and lifted his head gently so she could slip the heavy chain around his neck. "Wear this for me," she said softly, her fingers closing around the mockingjay. "In battle, at sea, wherever you go, so you can keep me close to your heart."

"There is no need, when you are already in my heart," he said, placing his hand on top of hers. "But I will cherish it forever."

She nodded, and pressed a kiss to his lips, before sinking back down to listen to the comforting sound of his heartbeat. It was strong and steady like the hammer of Thor.

Tomorrow the rebellion would begin in earnest, and their lives were in the hands of the gods—Thor, Odin, Freyja, Tyr, the entire pantheon of Asgard. Gods they had made blood sacrifices to, the same gods before whom she and Gæl had sworn to marry. Perhaps the outcome of this battle was already written in the runes, woven in the looms of fate. A whole host of valkyries—not just Brynhildr and her sisters, but also valkyries on earth like Katniss, Jó, Clove, Lyme, Lady Coinn, and perhaps even Margaretha herself—would decide those who were to live another day, and those who were to be carried aloft into Valhalla and Fólkvangr, to drink and fight and be merry until the day of reckoning. Until the day even Odin and Thor and the trickster Loki were destined to die: the day the skalds called the twilight of the gods.

Until Ragnarǫk.

* * *

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**A/N:**

Please accept an extra Gadge ficlet ("After the Reaping" in my canonverse collection, _The Future is Open_) as recompense for the lateness of the hour. It's my way of metaphorically sprinkling you with the blood of my imaginary sacrificial goat.

There is little official distinction between the various kinds of female beings in Norse/Germanic lore. I hope you liked my attempt at explaining why :) This chapter is a love letter to the women of THG—and to all women, past, present, and future.

It's not really explained why some warriors are taken to Odin's Valhalla and others are brought to Freyja's Fólkvangr. The valkyries have to attend to them all anyway. Serving mead is a huge honor that only Very Important People get to do, or so the mead servers were told.

The song Finn sings is taken from chapter 157 of _Njáls saga_. I keep meaning to learn skaldic meter, but I'm not that crazy… yet.

I have many, many headcanons about Darius: for example, that he was Suzanne's proto-Finnick (flirty redhead who _seems_ to have it good with the Capitol, but ultimately meets horrifically tragic demise), and that he was good-looking enough to make Gale jealous whenever he flirted with Katniss at the Hob (my fancast is Danish model Ken Bek—Google him and thank me later). To quote **Norbert's Mom**, the guy deserves some love. Don't you agree? :)


	18. Trickster

**WARNING: Mentions of sexual deviance and cruelty.**

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* * *

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**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

**Trickster**

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Yggdrasil is the world tree that links all of the nine realms. It grows through Asgard, the home of the Æsir gods, and Vanaheim, where the Vanir gods reside. It grows through Midgard, the earth, the place where humans live, toil, and die. It grows through Jotunheim, an icebound wilderness with black clouds of snow above and frozen ground below, a land of desolation and darkness, the land of the frost giants and the trolls.

But there was one jotun who was lifted up, exalted; one who earned the right to sit beside Odin and share his mead. It was the shapeshifter, the trickster; the one they called both a genius and a fool. The one who was called Loki.

Perhaps it was the folly of youth; perhaps it was because Odin had not yet sipped from Mimir's well nor learned the mystery of the runes when these events took place. Whatever the reason, one day Odin was so taken with Loki's cunning and cleverness that each cut a vein in his arm and let their blood flow together. From that moment on they were sworn to support each other, defend each other; to never accept a drink, a gift, or a favor unless it was also offered to the other.

From that moment on, they were allies.

From that moment on, they were brothers.

And because Odin had not yet sacrificed his eye to receive all-seeing sight, there were many things he did not yet know. What he did not know was that his blood-brother delighted in destruction; that, although Loki's light shone brighter, so were his shadows even darker. What Odin did not know was that it was this trickster who would bring about the extinction of the gods and the end of the universe. What Odin did not know was that some allies are more dangerous than enemies, and some brothers are no better than a stranger.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

That night, with a belly full of the fish Finn had caught and the ale they had brought from Tolv, with his body curled around Katnisse's underneath the furs, Peeta felt more content than he ever had in years.

Since leaving Panym, he and Katnisse had slept together every night in the tent she shared with Jó and Margaretha. At first he had meant to use his own bed roll, but Katnisse stopped him.

"This tent is too small," Katnisse had said bluntly. "We will have to share mine."

Margaretha had watched the two of them squeeze into a bed roll made for one. "I wish Haymið would let Gæl stay with me. After all, we are already engaged to be married."

"Haymið knows Peeta can keep it in his breeches," Jó had said, rolling her leggings down and pulling them off. "No matter how much Katnisse _wants_ to get in his breeches."

Jó had then balled up her leggings and tossed them in Peeta's direction, hitting the former monk squarely in the face.

"Do not do that when Peeta is here," Katnisse had said sourly.

"Do what?" Jó had asked, unpinning the bindings on her chest and unraveling the cloth that held her breasts in place.

"_That_," Katnisse had said, gesturing up and down at her friend's naked body. "Besides, it is not even practical. What if we are ambushed in the middle of the night? You would have to flee wearing nothing at all. I do not think dying of the cold will get you into Valhalla."

"Do not worry, Katnisse. If we are ambushed while I am naked, I will have an advantage—the element of surprise."

Despite Jó's teasing, Peeta had stayed, and he stayed every night thereafter. Even on the night that they spent on the floor at Delly's house, Katnisse had crawled up next to him and draped his arm around herself as if staking her claim.

It was an altogether new sensation for Peeta. Although he and Delly had been sweethearts, and she had been his first kiss, they had not ventured much further than that. They had certainly never slept in the same bed.

The night before Margaretha was to be taken away, Gæl appeared in front of their tent, and Katnisse and Jó made way so that the two of them could be alone together one last time before the rebellion well and truly began.

"Where shall we sleep?" Peeta asked.

"Somewhere far, far away," Katnisse replied grimly. "I swear to you, you do not want to be within hearing distance of this."

Thome took them in, making room for them in the large tent he shared with Cato and Darius on the other side of the camp.

To Katnisse's endless amusement, Jó kept her clothes on that night.

"That confirms it," Katnisse whispered later, when she and Peeta were in their usual sleeping position: her back flush against his chest, his hand on her waist. "She is in love."

"Turn around," Peeta whispered back. "It is easier to hear and be heard when we are facing each other."

Katnisse rolled over and faced him, and as they were still sharing the same bed roll she could not help but knee him lightly in the groin.

Peeta smothered a groan.

"I am sorry," Katnisse said, alarmed. "Did I hurt you?"

"It is all right," he reassured her. He added cheekily, "You have not done any lasting damage."

"It is just—not very comfortable—maybe if I—"

Peeta's eyes widened as Katnisse pressed the full length of her body against his, slinging one leg over his hip to make better use of the limited space underneath the furs.

"Is this good for you?" she asked softly.

He gulped. "As long as you are comfortable."

Katnisse shifted again, this time putting her elbow up on his shoulder so that her breasts were pressed against his chest. Her firm, beautiful breasts, the breasts he had seen not too long ago when he chanced upon her naked by the stream before the harvest feast.

Peeta tried to put some distance between them before she could feel his erection, but the way her leg held his body in place made it impossible to do so.

"Are you thinking about the rebellion?" she whispered. They were already nose to nose. "About finding your brother?"

"Right now?" Peeta said, intensely aware of the way her nipples were stiffening through their clothes. "To be honest, no."

"What are you thinking about?" Her breath was warm on his skin.

Peeta swallowed. "You," he said. "Katnisse, you cannot possibly expect me to be lying here with you, thinking of anything or anyone else _but _you." Did she still not know, the effect she had on people? He took a few deep breaths, willing himself to regain control. "Are you not afraid that Jó will see us and tease us even more?"

Katnisse snorted. "I do not think it is possible for her to tease us more than she already does. Besides, as long as Darius is here, I doubt she is even daring to breathe." She paused. "Peeta?"

"Yes?"

"Kiss me."

He obediently leaned in, traveling the short distance for his lips to reach hers. Katnisse's fingers wound themselves in his hair and dug into his scalp, pressing him closer and closer still, sucking his tongue into the hot depths of her mouth. "Mm," she said.

Peeta felt his hips grind into hers, causing waves of pleasure he had never before known. "Katnisse," he panted into her mouth.

"I am sorry," she whispered. "I will be quiet."

"It is not that," he said desperately, even as he felt her body undulating against his. _God in heaven_. "We—we should not be doing this. First—first we should marry."

"Why?" she asked plaintively, nibbling on his lower lip. "That is so long from now. I _want_ you, Peeta."

_I want you, too,_ he wanted to say, to shout to all who would care to listen, but he would not let himself speak the words. "Because—because I might get you with child."

"We do not have to do _that_," she purred, taking his hand and placing it on her breast. Even through the homespun wool of her tunic, he could feel the inviting softness of it, and it was all he could do not to surrender to his desire.

"Because—because—" Peeta searched his mind, and seized upon a line of reasoning he knew she could not ignore. "Because you would not want Prim to be doing this, either."

He felt Katnisse's body freeze. "Not while she is twelve years old," she said. "But, when she is my age… I am sure she will already be married, and as much as I hate to admit it, by then she would already be doing this and more."

With the image of her beloved Prim now firmly planted in her mind, Katnisse sighed. "You know me too well, Peeta."

Peeta kissed her, and smiled against her lips. "Besides, I do not want our first time—my first time, not just yours—to be in a tent with Jó and three others. Surely I can come up with something better."

"You mean… you have not…"

"No, never." He pressed his forehead against hers and stroked her cheek. "You will be the first, the last, the only woman I will ever make love to, Katnisse Eyvindsdottir."

Katnisse growled. "Now I _really _want to." She sighed again, and reached up to cover his hand with hers. "But you are right. You are always right. We should be patient. I will be patient."

She gave him one last kiss before rolling over again and settling into his embrace as she always did every night. Soon, she was breathing the deep, even breaths of sleep.

Peeta sighed in relief, even as his loins raged at him for calling a halt. _Patience_, he thought. _Our time will come. Until then, it is something to look forward to, something to strive towards. _He remembered why they were in Panym: the rebellion, Josef, Darius, all the tributes that came before, all the children that were taken after. _Something to fight for. Something to live for._

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

When Gæl returned to his tent, Haymið was awake and waiting.

"I distinctly recall forbidding you from visiting Margaretha at night," the jarl said, his eyes dark.

"We are betrothed already," Gæl said in protest. "Besides, it was you who gave her to me as a thrall, you who told me to do with her as I saw fit. I could have taken her to be my bed-slave long ago, and you would not have been able to stop me. It is a little too late to object now."

Haymið set his jaw. "You do not have to remind me of my own actions. You are aware, of course, that I gave her to you because I knew you would not use her that way." He paused and sighed. "Believe me, there is a good reason why I forbade you from sharing a tent with her. Have you not noticed the interest Lady Coinn has taken in your relationship? Allies or no, the less she knows about you, the better."

"We are betrothed," Gæl repeated. "My mother introduced herself as Margaretha's new mother-in-law. We do not hide our affection; it is there for everyone to see. What more does Lady Coinn need to know? What more is there for us to hide?"

Rather than respond, the older man's gaze fell on the mockingjay on the chest of the younger. "Margaretha gave you her medallion," he said needlessly.

Gæl reflexively reached up to touch the circle of gold. "Yes." He studied the jarl's face, the pain Haymið rarely let other people see. "You are afraid we will be like you and Maysilleigh."

"Before we found Margaretha, I had almost convinced myself it was a dream," Haymið said. "The medallion was the only thing I had to remember Maysilleigh by, and even that could be explained away… a meaningless bauble that I desperately wanted to believe was a gift from a woman I was not even sure ever existed."

"Do you regret your love?" Gæl found himself asking. "Do you wish you had never met Maysilleigh, knowing you would not be able to keep her?"

"I thought I knew pain," Haymið said simply. "I did not."

"I am not you, and Margaretha is not Maysilleigh," Gæl said. "Our story is different. It will not end the same way."

The jarl snorted. "Who told you this, and gave you such certainty? A vǫlva? Did the Norns come to you in a dream and tell you it would be so?"

"I do not need a seer to know what is in my own heart," Gæl said. "When I fell in love with Katnisse, I knew… I knew that for her, I would fight. For her, I would die. But now… what I have with Margaretha is something even stronger. Something even greater. I will fight for her and die for her, yes, but more than that… I will live. For her, I will live."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

They stood together in the broad light of day, Gæl's arms around her waist, Margaretha's hands cradling the contours of his face.

She looked into the grey eyes of the man she loved so much, her thumbs tracing and smoothing his dark brows, caressing his windburnt cheeks and his strong jaw, whispering over the chapped lips that had so often kissed her and given her untold pleasure. Would that she could commit his every feature to memory. Would that such memories never failed or faded away. "I wish I had asked Peeta to draw a picture of you, so I could carry your image with me wherever I go," she said regretfully.

"Is my face truly so forgettable, that you would need a piece of parchment to remember the way I look?" Gæl murmured, smiling wryly.

"You know what I meant," Margaretha chided him, burying her face in the crook of his neck and breathing in deeply. Even though they were in Panym, he smelled the way he always smelled—like the forests of Tolv, like the North, like home. "You are my love, my beautiful, beautiful love, whom I have sworn to marry in front of the gods."

At this, Gæl chuckled softly into her hair.

"What is so funny?" she asked.

"Do you remember the story of how Loki helped Thor retrieve his hammer when it was stolen?"

Margaretha did remember. It was one of her favorites, and she always giggled along with Pósy whenever it was told.

_When Thor woke up one morning to find his hammer Mjolnir missing, Loki came to his aid at once. Borrowing Freyja's cloak of falcon feathers, Loki flew to Jotunheim, where he chanced upon the giant Thrym._

"_I will return Mjolnir to its rightful owner," Thrym told Loki, "if I can have Freyja's hand in marriage."_

_Loki promised him that it would be so, and took to the air once more._

_But Freyja refused to betray her husband, a long-lost wanderer for whom she pined and shed tears of gold. So it came to pass that Thor journeyed to the wedding feast, dressed as a bride in Freyja's stead, accompanied by Loki who himself was disguised as a lady-in-waiting._

"_I have never before seen such a gluttonous woman," Thrym said, his eyes wide as the "bride" polished off eight salmon and an entire deer._

"_Eight days she has not been able to eat, for want of you," the "handmaiden" replied._

_The monstrous giant lifted the bride's veil to kiss her, only to stagger back in shock. "And why are Freyja's eyes as red as embers?"_

"_Eight days she has not been able to sleep, because of her longing for you," Loki explained._

_In his lust Thrym placed Mjolnir on the bride's lap, to ensure her fertility and prepare her for their wedding night. Reunited thus with his hammer, Thor stood up and revealed himself, his veil falling away. He whirled his hammer and smote the bridegroom and his kin with a thunderbolt._

Margaretha let out a soft laugh. "I do not think we can get away with something like that."

"I thought you said I was beautiful," Gæl teased. "Thor was able to fool the giant; surely I can fool a mere man."

She laid her head on his shoulder. "I would not stake the freedom of Panym on such a plan."

Margaretha felt Gæl's chest rise and fall as he sighed, the mockingjay medallion pressed between them. "I only wish I could go with you on this mission, and make sure you are safe," he told her. "There are better allies to be had, I think, than Lady Coinn and her lover."

"Clove will be there," she said. "She will be at my side at all times, as my lady-in-waiting."

Gæl regarded her doubtfully. "Do you trust her?"

Margaretha recalled the story Lyme had shared. For all their differences in appearance and birth, Clove had been a thrall, just like Margaretha. What would Margaretha's story have been like, if Haymið had not given her to Gæl? Would Margaretha have had the strength and the will to endure, to fight the way Clove had?

"I do," Margaretha said. "I do trust her."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Among other things, Delly's father had given the warriors a carriage. Though not as stately or as well-appointed as those Lady Coinn or even Margaretha had been accustomed to, it was the best they could acquire under the circumstances. Lady Coinn had purchased clothes for Clove from the traders in Tolv, and Margaretha did not miss the surprised yet adoring look in Cato's eyes when Clove emerged from her tent wearing her forest green dress, her long, dark hair braided at the crown and flowing freely over her shoulders.

Clove scratched at her collar and swore under her breath. Margaretha tried to hide a smile.

The ride to the castle was uneventful, with Sir Thread at the head of the carriage and the three women inside. They were met with disbelief at the wooden gate of the king's stronghold, until a young man in a hooded robe came out to greet them. "Praise God, the rumors were true. Lady Heavensby, I am—"

"I no longer wish to be called by the name of my dead husband," Lady Coinn interrupted him. "You may refer to me as the lady Coinn."

He nodded. "Lady Coinn. I have informed the king that you are here, although he does not believe me. I shall escort you to his bedchambers, so that you may convince him yourself."

Lady Coinn bristled. "I think I know the way well enough."

Even in her finery, Lady Coinn could walk with long, quick strides, and soon everyone except Sir Thread had difficulty keeping up with her as they wound down one corridor and up another. Margaretha noticed that the young man in the robe was limping.

"Are you a monk?" Margaretha asked. The robe was not like those of any order she had seen before, but she would readily admit that she had not seen very many.

He shook his head. "I am merely sickly, and I wear this for warmth."

There was an air of familiarity about him.

Finally, they came to a large, heavy door guarded by six men. Though their armor was a sight to behold, Margaretha was sure they were no match for her beloved. _My Gæl can defeat them all with one arm tied behind his back._

"The king is expecting us," the young man told the king's bodyguards. "The gentlewoman is his sister."

The guard closest to the door quickly unbarred and opened it, revealing another six men inside the king's personal chambers. Margaretha revised her earlier conclusion. _Perhaps without one arm tied behind his back._

Their company stepped inside the king's chambers, and immediately Margaretha was assaulted by the stench of blood and roses.

"Who goes there?" King Coriolan said, holding a white kerchief to his mouth and coughing violently. He was sitting up in his enormous bed, his legs dangling over a tray of hot coals. There was a young woman at his feet—a tribute, Margaretha supposed. She had bright red hair, the reddest Margaretha had ever seen, redder than that of Finn and even that of Darius.

At the thought of Darius, Margaretha felt an overwhelming urge to vomit. _Darius lost his eye at the command of this monster,_ she thought. _The king ate it, had it served to him on a platter._

She looked at the king—a stooped old man, so thin and frail he looked almost spineless, though he had been large and well built in his youth. King Coriolan had hair as white as snow, and his thick, swollen lips were stretched tightly over his face, giving him the appearance of a snake. His lips, as well as the kerchief, were stained red with blood.

The tribute glanced Margaretha's way but did not speak. Her face had a look of cunning about it, like that of a fox. Her eyes fell on Margaretha, and then at Clove, as she wordlessly rubbed her hands up and down the king's legs to keep them warm.

"Dear brother, it is I," Lady Coinn said, sweeping across the room towards him. "Your sister."

"My sister is dead," the king said, squinting at her. "Dead at the hands of the Northmen, when their pagan army stormed my nephew's wedding feast."

"Truly, it is I," Lady Coinn said, kneeling down at his feet opposite the fox-faced girl. In this position, the lady was almost engulfed by her heavy skirts.

Lady Coinn took the king's weathered, gnarled hand in hers and placed it on her cheek. "Look at me and see."

King Coriolan looked closely at Lady Coinn, and a softness came over his face. "'Tis you," he said in wonder. "How did you survive?"

"By the grace of God," Lady Coinn said. "I was brought to the slaver's market in Cork, but together with my bodyguard I was able to escape and find passage back to Panym."

_Lies._

"Truly God is with our lineage," King Coriolan declared. "In my old age He continues to keep me alive, by bringing the young children to me as they were brought to Christ. And you, my sweet sister, have survived the savagery of those heathens, returning to me as lovely as you were when we were much younger."

At this, the king bent forward and placed his bloody lips on his sister's own like a lover.

Margaretha could only stare dumbly at what was taking place, but when the kiss ended Lady Coinn looked unperturbed. She licked the blood from her lips, as if she had done so many times in the past, and signaled for Margaretha to come closer. "Look, my brother. Look whom I have brought."

Margaretha stepped forward, Lady Magthilde's voice echoing in her ears. _Be brave, little bird,_ she would have said. _Be strong. _"My lord king."

The king's eyes became unglazed, and he looked at Margaretha as if she were an apparition. "As I live and breathe, she is the image of Maysilleigh."

"That she is," Lady Coinn agreed. "Dear brother, may I present to you the lady Margaretha. The last of the mockingjays, and Maysilleigh's daughter."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

This revelation, combined with the stench of blood mixed with roses, and the knowledge that King Coriolan had abused the young women of Panym, cannibalized its young men and even eaten Darius's eye, caused Margaretha's vision to blur and darken as the sound of Lady Coinn and King Coriolan's voices faded away. Her limbs felt heavy, useless, as if she were walking underwater. The blood rushing in her veins was slowing, cooling, turning to ice. She could not move. She could not breathe.

_Imagine if Haymið were right. Imagine if you were truly his daughter and Maysilleigh's._

She felt a hand at her back: Clove, who had never once shown concern for others, and—to Margaretha's knowledge—had never initiated physical contact that was not intended to harm, if not kill. Did Clove understand what they were saying? Did she know who Maysilleigh was, and the significance of Lady Coinn's words? Margaretha steadied herself, and shot a grateful look at her lady-in-waiting. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Foxface observe them both in her silent, calculating way.

"She is my gift to you, dear brother," Lady Coinn was saying. "She will bear you the son that Maysilleigh should have given you sixteen years ago. Go unto her and you will have the heir you have longed many years for."

"Your gift is pleasing to me, my sister," King Coriolan said. "I shall do so, and I shall enjoy it greatly. However, I have come to accept that my heir will not be a natural-born son. It has been done before, in Panym before our father came to rule, and in other kingdoms near and far. So it shall be again. I have already chosen an heir among my advisers, a man I trust and love like a son of my own loins. Tomorrow he will be proclaimed as prince regent."

"Who is this adviser?" Lady Coinn demanded, her eyes blazing as she stood up. "Whom are you appointing to rule on your behalf?"

"You have met him already," King Coriolan replied. He gestured towards the man in the hooded robes, the one who had brought them to the king's chambers. "He came to me over a year ago, and now he interprets my dreams and gives me counsel. Never have I met a young man his equal. Introduce yourself, my son, to my sister and my new consort."

The man removed his hood, and Margaretha felt her world move under her feet yet again. He was handsome, but pale, so pale. His curly blond hair was thinning on top of his head, and he had the haunted look of someone who had stared evil in the eye.

She knew his name even before he revealed it.

"You are too kind, my king," the handsome blond man said. "Lady Coinn, Lady Margaretha, I am your humble servant. My name is Josef."

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

The Loki of Norse lore is Thor's uncle (sort of), not his adopted brother like in the Marvel Comics Universe.

A vǫlva was a wise woman who was said to practice magic and have the gift of prophecy.

Being a phallic symbol and therefore a sign of fertility, Thor's hammer would be laid on a bride's lap at a wedding.


	19. Valhalla

.

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**Valhalla**

.

One of Gæl's earliest, most vivid memories was that of his father leaving for the raids.

"Tomorrow I shall go a-viking," Hallvard said one night, his arm around Hejsel's shoulder, their four-year-old son in his lap. It was a clear summer night, and the sky was awash with stars—so many stars. "Do you remember what that means, my son?"

The little boy nodded solemnly. Both Hallvard and Hejsel had spoken of it many times before, and Gæl vaguely remembered his father making the same journey last summer. Besides, every boy and girl in the village played at raiding: that very afternoon he had fought with Thome and Bristl, using wooden swords and miniature shields, until two older boys named Finn and Ulf came dressed as berserkers and chased the younger children away. "It means you will sail across the sea and look for treasure."

"That is correct. It also means that, while I am away, it is your duty to help your mother, and not cause any trouble for her. Can I trust you to do that?"

"Yes, Father." Young Gæl chewed on his lip. "How long will you be gone?"

"One month, two, perhaps the whole summer," Hallvard answered gravely. "It depends on the will and the whims of the gods."

"Will you go to Valhalla?" the boy asked, his grey eyes wide and innocent.

The warrior and the shieldmaiden exchanged concerned glances. "Who told you about Valhalla?" Hejsel asked carefully.

Gæl shrugged his little shoulders. "You remember, Mother. The two big boys with hair like fire. The ones that smell like fish," he added, wrinkling his nose. "They said they are going to Valhalla, because that is where the beautiful women called vak—valley—vary—"

"Valkyries," Hejsel supplied.

Gæl nodded enthusiastically. "They said Valhalla is where the valkyries take the best warriors."

"That is true," Hallvard confirmed. "The valkyries choose only the bravest and noblest of men and women to bring to Valhalla, where they will eat and drink with the gods."

The young boy's jaw dropped. "Even Thor and Odin?"

"Especially Thor and Odin," his father told him. "Every day the warriors in Valhalla fight. When evening falls, they will stand up, put their heads back on their shoulders and their arms back in their sockets, so they can feast. All night they feast on a never-ending boar, and drink mead from the udders of a goat. And then, when morning comes, the warriors get up and fight once more."

"What fun!" Gæl exclaimed. "And no chores?"

"No chores," Hejsel said, putting her palms on either side of Gæl's face and squashing his cheeks.

"Just fighting and feasting forever?"

"Not forever," Hallvard corrected him. "Only until Ragnarǫk."

Gæl furrowed his brow. "What is Ragnarǫk?"

"That is the final battle," the warrior said, pulling his son close. "The end of the world as we know it. You see, Gæl, nothing in the nine realms lasts forever. Everyone dies; everything passes away."

"Even the gods?"

"Especially the gods."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Some say that Christ was crucified at noon.

This, according to the elders of the Church, was the reason why noontime was most suitable for prayer. Or, at least, it was the first and foremost among a multitude of other reasons. Being the middle of the day, it was an opportunity to rest momentarily from one's labor and reflect upon God's mercy. Being the hour when the sun was highest in the sky, even in coldest winter, it was an opportunity to bask in the fullness of divine light and all the wonders of creation.

And so, on that day as on any other day, the bells pealed at noon.

"Anything to report, Ethelbald?" the head of the relief guard enquired as he approached the gate.

Ethelbald stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together briskly. "Nothing but this sarding cold."

"Language," his replacement reprimanded him. "That word is hardly appropriate for this holy hour."

"I cannot help it," Ethelbald complained. "'Tis as if the Northmen sent their winters to attack us, instead of their boats and their heathen armies. I should be at ho—at church, with the wife, not freezing my arse off at the gates."

"Your sacrifice is duly noted," the other man said dryly.

Ethelbald and his cohort were about to leave for the dungeons where they were needed next, when horses came to a stop in front of the gate, pulling a cart driven by a grinning bronze-haired man sitting beside a younger, earnest-faced blond.

"Good day," the blond said in greeting. "We request permission to enter."

The head of the relief guard narrowed his eyes at the stranger. "What business have you here?"

"We wish to say our noontime prayers."

"You are rather late," the guard said. "Prayers have already begun." He stepped closer, and scrutinized the blond man's face. "Do I know you? You look… familiar."

"I am afraid I cannot say the same for you," the man on the cart said without skipping a beat. "Here at the gates, yes, I have seen you, but not in any personal capacity."

The guard frowned, then turned his attention to the other man. "What are you smiling at?"

The grinning man said nothing.

"Well?" the guard challenged him. "Can you not speak?"

The man's dimples deepened as his smile grew even wider, showing all of his white teeth. He opened his mouth and spoke in a clear and confident voice.

"Piss-pot."

Ethelbald drew his sword and advanced upon the men in the cart. "How dare you mock—"

The words died on his lips as he toppled over, revealing a short-haired young woman standing behind him, an ax in each hand.

"_Piss-pot_?" Jó echoed in disbelief, even as she nimbly dodged one guard's sword and turned around to bury her ax in another man's face. As this was a mission of stealth, she had not partaken of the mushroom potion she reserved for open battle, and though she wore her wolfskin she had foregone the wolf's head.

"I never said I possessed a mastery of the Saxon language," Finn replied in Norse, jumping down from the cart with his trident in hand. "The funny words are easier to remember."

Darius and a few warriors from Tretten emerged from where they lay hidden in the cart, and together they dispatched all of the guards quickly and easily with one or two blows each.

"When I suggested we attack at noon," Darius said ruefully as he, Peeta, and the Northmen stripped the guards of their armor and put it on over their own clothes, "I meant we should wait until _after_ the guards had changed, and catch them unawares before they could settle into their watch."

"My apologies," Finn said. "I thought you meant attack while the guards were in the midst of changing, so we could defeat two groups at once." He surveyed the dead lying on the ground. "But it worked, did it not?"

"Yes, and right now that is all that matters," Peeta said. His spear made a sucking noise as he retrieved it from the stomach of one of the Saxon guards. He had killed men before, but this was the first that was not out of self-defense, and that made all the difference. _Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. _"We have to free the tributes, and—if he is still alive—find my brother."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Josef," Lady Coinn said, repeating the young adviser's name after he introduced himself. "How did you come to the king's attention?"

"I was given as tribute, my lady," the blond man in the robes answered. "I was brought before King Coriolan about a year and a half ago, and…" He swallowed, his Adam's apple jumping up and down in his pale throat. "As his chief complaint at the time was the nightmares and portentous dreams that plagued his sleep, it was decreed that I… that my skull would be cracked open, and my brain would be served to him. Fortunately… as you can see… that did not come to pass, for I proved to the king that my brain was more useful to him while I was still alive and in command of it."

"I see." The lady looked at him up and down. "And what are these dreams that you have interpreted for the king, that have caused you to become so indispensable to the throne… indispensable to the point that you would be named prince regent?"

"There have been many, my lady," Josef said. "But perhaps today I will tell you of the dream that came to the king upon hearing of your supposed death at your son's wedding feast.

"The king had dreamed that his body had been pierced and torn asunder. Birds were pecking at his entrails, pulling them out of his belly and using them to bind his hands and feet. Throughout this ordeal he remained alive and conscious, and the pain was terrible to bear.

"Finally, a flock of doves came to the aid of the king. One by one, the birds that had tortured him were defeated and turned into gold. Working together, the doves then took the golden birds and placed them inside the king's hollow belly. When this was done, the doves themselves pecked at the entrails that bound the king until he was freed. Thus did his agony end."

"That is a horrific dream indeed," Lady Coinn said. "And what was the meaning you offered?"

"The body of the king is Panym itself, attacked and shredded to pieces by birds that symbolize the king's enemies. Ravens, symbolizing the pagans from the North who come to our shores, pillaging our towns and monasteries, murdering our men and raping our women. Mockingjays, symbolizing all those in Panym who desire to rebel against the throne, threatening the peace and stability of the kingdom from within. The doves are soldiers and missionaries who shall defeat the rebels and convert the unbelievers, that Panym may prosper in faith and in material wealth until the day of Christ's return."

"That is certainly most impressive," Lady Coinn said to Josef. She turned to the king and addressed him. "I am not surprised, my brother, that you have taken this young man into your confidence."

She spoke in a calm, measured tone, but in her eyes Margaretha saw—for the very first time—the tiniest chink in the composure and cunning that had always been Lady Coinn's armor. "However, I must say that I am disappointed. If I had known you were going to appoint a peasant, a stranger with no ties of blood or even marriage to our family, as your heir… I would have fought Father to keep our son, all those years ago."

"Dear sister, you know as well as I that he would have been an abomination," King Coriolan replied, coughing into his kerchief once more. "He would not have been worthy to sit upon the throne."

"You always sided with Father," she accused him. "You let him take our son away." Her eyes were hard, but they glistened with tears, and her body began to tremble with rage. "You let him kill our boy."

The king narrowed his snake eyes at his sister. "After which, you pursued Earl Heavensby like a whore desperate for silver."

"Because I knew I would never be good enough for you and Father," Lady Coinn countered. "Never good enough to rule. Not even good enough to produce an heir."

King Coriolan dismissed the charges with a wave of his hand. "The first is because you are younger than I, and a woman to boot. Women are weak and not fit to rule. The second is because you are my sister. It would not have been natural. It would have been against the will of God."

"Half-sister," Lady Coinn corrected him, her voice dripping with contempt. "Like Sarah, Abraham's wife and the mother of his son Isaac. Tell me, was that not the will of God? Even Lot, the only man God saved from Sodom and Gomorrah, lay with his daughters and fathered his own grandsons."

"They plied him with wine and seduced him," the king said. He looked at Josef for confirmation, and the blond nodded his head. "I know my Scripture."

"Yet God did not strike Lot's daughters down as He did Lot's wife, whose only sin was looking back as they were fleeing destruction," Lady Coinn countered. "God did not take away their sons, those _abominations_ as you call them, the way our father did mine. In fact, through Isaac and Isaac's son Jacob, Abraham became a father of many nations."

"God does not owe you, or anyone else, an explanation," Josef said with conviction. "He works in His own way, and it is not for mere mortals to question."

Lady Coinn gestured around the room. "And all of _this_ is natural? Demanding human tribute? Cannibalizing young men, abusing young women? All _this_ is according to the will of God?"

King Coriolan sighed. "Dear sister, why must you spoil our reunion so? I was truly happy to see you."

He gestured for his bodyguards to come forward. "Take them away."

There was a metallic sound as the king's bodyguards, and Sir Thread, drew their swords.

Despite his age, Sir Thread moved quickly and efficiently, finding the gaps in the bodyguards' armor and stabbing them where they were most vulnerable. In this way, the older man was able to take down three men.

As for Clove, the petite shieldmaiden was a blur, using the size difference between herself and the men to her advantage by ducking as they lunged at her, causing them to fall over from their own momentum. Once her victims were down, she plunged her knives—which she had heretofore hidden in the sleeves of her dress—into each one until they bled out onto the ground. There was a method to her madness, and a madness to her method, and one by one her prey fell until she had killed the remaining three of the king's bodyguards.

But while they were fighting, the other six bodyguards who had been standing watch outside the king's chambers filtered into the room, and one of them kicked the shieldmaiden from behind as her last target lay dying.

"Clove!" Margaretha screamed. She fell to the ground, her fingers scrabbling in pools of blood until they closed around the spear of a fallen guard. She rose up on her feet and drove the spear into the guard who was ripping Clove's dress away from her body.

The heat of battle gave her strength, and the spear buried itself deep into the man's back. Clove lifted her head and locked eyes with Margaretha.

"Run!" the blonde shouted in Norse, pointing at the open, unmanned door before the guards fell upon her. "Tell the others! Tell them about Peeta's brothe—"

Pain seared across her stomach, rendering her unable to speak. Margaretha fell down on her side onto the ground, her eyes and mouth wide open.

"Do not harm the girl," King Coriolan barked at the men who were standing over her. "The next man who touches her without my permission will spend the night in the pit of snakes."

The king turned to his sister and her lover, whose arms were now bound behind their backs. "Lady Margaretha speaks Norse?" the king asked needlessly. "I suppose I should not be surprised, now that you have revealed her true parentage to me. So the rumors about Maysilleigh had been true—that she had allowed herself to be defiled by a Northern heathen, and borne him a half-blood child. Dearest sister, you have indeed made my dreams come true, but perhaps in a different way from what you might have expected. Josef did not mention this earlier, but one of the birds in my dream had been a creature such as the world had never seen before—a bird that was part mockingjay, part raven. Not only have you shown me that one truly does exist, but you have even delivered her to me yourself." He shook his head sadly. "I would have forgiven you, if you had not shown that your company had planned violence all along. For this, you shall pay the consequences."

Lady Coinn spat on the ground, struggling against the men who held her fast.

"She is not the first mockingjay I have delivered to you," she said bitterly, tears running down her face at last. "I did not reveal my hand at the time, but a year ago it was I who brought Lord Undersee's treason to your attention, I who caused you to visit your treasury at the opportune time to verify that the accounts were not as they seemed to be in his books. And now you betray me, raise your hand against me—your own flesh and blood. After all I have done for you."

"My dear, sweet sister, it would appear that I should say the same to you," King Coriolan said. "By admitting your knowledge of Lord Undersee's treason, you have implicated yourself in the rebellion, and sentenced yourself to death. I shall execute you the way I executed him and his wife." His snake eyes glittered with fury. "With fire."

Those were the last words Margaretha heard before the world turned black around her.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Clove ran.

Josef moved towards the door to block her escape, but Clove threw a knife at his already injured leg and sprinted out the door unchallenged.

She regretted it almost immediately. She always carried two knives or more, and she felt the loss of each one keenly, like a severed limb. _Lyme will have brought my other knives_, she thought. _Or I can borrow hers. I would even borrow one from that loudmouthed Jórunnr if I had to._

The square was empty, with almost everyone gathered inside the church for noontime prayers. She spotted another group of guards and bolted in the opposite direction.

"Clove!" a familiar, if annoying, voice shouted in Norse. "Come back!"

The shieldmaiden turned around and realized that the guards were in fact Jó and the others who were to rescue the tributes from the dungeons. They had scavenged armor, presumably from guards they had killed on the way in, making them unrecognizable as Northerners from a distance.

"Where are the others?" Finn demanded as she came closer. "Where is Margaretha?"

Clove bent over to catch her breath, her hands on her knees. "With the king," she panted. She looked up, and met Peeta's gaze. "With your brother."

The former monk's face turned white. "Josef is alive?" he said in disbelief, at the same time that Jó exclaimed, "You _left_ her?"

To Jó, she said simply: "She told me to." To Peeta, she answered: "Yes. Your brother is working with the king. Tomorrow he is to be named prince regent."

"Josef would never…" Peeta's voice trailed off. "How do you know this?" he wanted to know.

Incensed, Clove spoke to the blond Saxon in his native tongue. "The rest of these idiots have not bothered to learn your language, but I am no idiot, lover boy."

Darius bit his tongue to keep from laughing.

Clove continued in Norse. "King Coriolan does not know that we plan to attack, but it shall be easy for him to come to this conclusion after everything that has happened. We need to strike with the full force of our army now, before the king calls more men to his aid."

"No," Finn said. "Whether we fight two hundred men or three hundred, the odds are not in our favor. But perhaps… There is a proclamation tomorrow, you say?"

"Yes," Clove said, exasperated. "Did you not hear me the first time?"

Finn ignored the shieldmaiden's irritated tone. "I have an idea."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

After Finn explained his idea, Clove volunteered to share it with the others. She met the rest of the Northern army back at the encampment a ways from the castle.

"No no no no _no_," Gæl shouted, his head in his hands. His chest constricted painfully at the news that Lady Coinn's plan had failed by her own hand, and that Margaretha was now more a prisoner than ever before. "Why did you leave her?"

"To get _you_, you ungrateful swine," Clove snarled. "I would not leave if I did not have to. She—" The shieldmaiden paused, her eyes widening slightly in realization before quickly returning to their stern expression. "She saved my life."

"Do not be so hard on her, Gæl," Cato spoke up. "None of us want to see Margaretha, or any of our company, harmed. We shall get her back, and you shall be reunited."

"I do not need you to defend me," Clove snapped.

Cato's blue eyes flashed dangerously. "I never said I was."

In the meantime Gæl had picked up his sword and spear, and ensured that his ax hung securely from his belt. "I am going there now."

Thome stopped him with a hand to his chest. "Finn has a plan, Gæl. Trust in the plan. You are not going to win this rebellion by yourself, not with seventy men, perhaps not even with five hundred, without a plan."

"Lady Coinn had a plan," Gæl pointed out spitefully. "And look where we are now."

"This time, it is Finn's plan, and we can trust in Finn's plan," Katnisse said. "Please, Gæl. We need you to keep your mind on the mission. Peeta is inside the castle walls, too. Everything we do—everything you do—will affect whether they live or die."

Tears prickled behind Gæl's eyes. It was not just Margaretha, though she was more than enough reason. What if she was already carrying their child? How could he lose them both? His mother had been right: he should never have let Margaretha join the rebellion, respecting her decisions be damned. Love was not enough. Love was never enough. He needed her by his side. He needed her alive.

In the end, it was Haymið who gave him comfort. The jarl placed his hands on the young warrior's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Last night, you said that you were not me, and Margaretha was not Maysilleigh," he said. "Last night, you said you would live for her. Do you not believe that she will live for you, too?"

"I do," Gæl said, his hand flying up to the mockingjay medallion around his neck. "I do believe."_ If only it were enough to believe._

"Then prove it. Let us wait, and bide our time, and follow Finn's plan," Haymið said. "Trust in the gods."

But from the depths of Gæl's mind, a memory of his father arose, and for the first time thinking of Hallvard did not strengthen his resolve.

_"Everyone dies; everything passes away," his father had said, on the eve of the raids._

_"Even the gods?" Young Gæl had asked._

_"Especially the gods."_

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

Anni's brother Ulf had red hair because 1) baby Sægeirr has red hair, which means both Finn and Anni have the gene for it; and 2) like Katnisse said, Jó does have a type. This will be explored in another fic, but for now I'll just say she used to have a thing for Ulf, and he's the reason her animal skin of choice is that of the wolf (Ulf means "wolf").

The exact hour of the crucifixion of Jesus is disputed—even the gospels do not seem to agree—but some traditions hold that Jesus was crucified at noon.

The word "sard" was one of the predecessors of "fuck".

Of course, I'm not rationalizing incest—far from it! But these arguments do exist. Also, I wanted to show how those in power twist other people's words in order to serve their specific agenda.

GADGE FANS... check out the new fanfic recommendations blog on Tumblr! **GadgeFicRecs** is moderated by **Belle453**, **Dendroica**, **hawtsee**, **NurseKelly**, and yours truly. Feel free to send in your questions and recommend stories you've written or read.


	20. Blood

.

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

**Blood**

.

It was dark when Margaretha awoke.

_Where am I?_

She was on a bed, surrounded by cushions as soft and yielding as a cloud, in a room faintly illuminated by torchlight.

_Silly girl_, she chided herself. _You are back in Panym. This is where you were born, where you grew up. All things are familiar. All things will be well._

Even as she formed the thoughts in her head, she knew they were lies. Panym was no longer her home. Panym was a place of danger and fear. Her true home was in the arms of her beloved: the beautiful Northman with the intelligent grey eyes. The warrior who held her close and kissed every inch of her skin. The one who listened to her, and understood her; the one who had her heart and gave his completely. The man who said he could not bear for them to be apart. The man who said he kept his promises.

_We will be reunited soon_, she tried to reassure herself. _We will. We must. He will come for me._

There was a fluttering in her belly. _He will come for us._

Despite the coolness of the night, it felt like her body was on fire. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead, plastering her long blonde hair to her cheeks and neck. She struggled to rise up on her elbows, but even the slightest movement caused sharp pains to shoot into her skull.

She drew upon all the strength in her body to throw aside the heavy blankets that weighed her down.

She screamed.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Shh, shh. Lady Margaretha. Do not be afraid. Lady Margaretha—"

It was King Coriolan's tribute, the fox-faced young woman with bright red hair. She peered at her anxiously with wide-set green eyes.

"My baby," Margaretha sobbed, tears running down her cheeks. "Help me. My baby."

The tribute's freckled face turned even paler, and she touched Margaretha's belly gingerly. "You are with child?"

"I am bleeding," she whimpered. "Do not let me lose my baby."

Foxface brought a candle closer and bade her to look down where, just moments ago, Margaretha knew with absolute certainty that she had been lying down in a pool of blood.

"One of the guards punched you for killing his comrade," Foxface said. "You fainted, but not immediately. I did not see you bleed, not then or now. Are you truly pregnant?"

"No—maybe—I do not know," Margaretha admitted, the combined emotions of relief and frustration bringing on a fresh round of tears as she patted her stomach, her thighs, the bed she was sitting up in. All dry; not a drop of crimson to be seen. "I dreamed that I was, and that I was bleeding. It all felt so real."

Of course it was a dream. She and Gæl had made love for the first time just two weeks ago, before they sailed for Panym. Margaretha was no midwife, but she knew that even if she had conceived, such a blow was not likely to harm the baby this early in the pregnancy.

But was it just a dream? Could it have been an omen? Or a reminder of what could have befallen Aunt Maysilleigh?

_She is not your aunt, _Margaretha thought. _She is your mother._

That is, if Lady Coinn was to be believed. And her former mother-in-law had told so many lies, spun so many webs. Who could say whether she was telling the truth about this? Or for that matter, about anything else, like her claim that she had betrayed Lord Undersee?

_If you are anything like your father, I am sure you are an excellent judge of character. _Was Lady Coinn talking about Lord Undersee when she uttered those words back in Tolv? Or was she referring to Haymið? Perhaps it did not matter. Both men had allied themselves with Lady Coinn, and so had Margaretha herself. They had all been taken for fools.

"What is your name?" Margaretha asked the tribute, sniffling.

"Emme, my lady," she said, sounding astonished that the noblewoman had deigned to find out.

"Emme, where are we? Where is Lady Coinn? Where is the king?"

"We are in the room where the female tributes are held," Emme said. "When you lost consciousness, the guards brought you here on the king's orders. Lady Coinn and her companion were brought to the dungeons, where the male tributes are. The king is in his own chambers, conferring with Josef in private."

Margaretha looked around, and the sight of the shackles Darius had spoken of filled her with dread. "Female tributes? Where are the others?"

Emme gave her a sad smile. "There are no others. I am the only one left."

Margaretha felt vomit rise to her throat, and once more she wondered if she really were with child. _It is too soon to tell,_ she thought. _Too soon._ "Did they pass quickly?"

"A few did. Others wasted away from the shame. They could not eat, not even the little food that was offered to us. And for many, the cold was too much for them to bear. There will not be another tribute until next month." Emme hesitated, then spoke again. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lady, but I knew your fa—I knew Lord Undersee. Or, rather, I knew of him. He overlooked my family's debt to the crown for many years. It was always one thing or another—pests, drought, disease—that prevented us from paying the full amount of the taxes. But he understood, and told us not to fear. My own father always said that he never knew a kinder man. I know I have lost my chance to thank Lord Undersee in person, but… now you are here, and I wanted you to know how grateful I am for him."

"Those are kind words indeed," Margaretha said humbly. "Father—Lord Undersee was a good man, and I do not doubt that he helped your family greatly. But I know he would have hung his head in shame to know that for all of his efforts, you were still chosen as tribute. No-one should have to suffer as tributes do." She wondered if she could confide in Emme, tell her about the rebellion, but she decided to hold her tongue for the time being. As genuine as Emme had sounded, Margaretha knew this was a time to keep secrets close to her heart.

"Will the king ask for us tonight?" Margaretha dared to ask. Was it wise to carry on with the plan and assassinate the king, now that Clove was gone and their deception was revealed?

"I do not know," Emme said. "He is old and weak, and oftentimes he is content to just have girls in his bed for their body warmth. But even if he violated us only once, that would have been more than enough reason to hate him. And sometimes…" She gulped. "Sometimes he lets the guards have us, and they are not old or weak at all."

Margaretha's blood ran cold in her veins. She might be able to kill a mad old king, but could she fight off his guards?

"But you heard him," Emme said quickly. "He threatened to have the men thrown into the pit of snakes if they touched you. So I do not think that will be your fate."

_Think, _Margaretha commanded herself. _Whether it was Maysilleigh or Magthilde, the blood of the mockingjay runs through your veins. Think._

Her thoughts flew to Clove. She had been able to escape, and perhaps by now she had alerted the others that their party had been captured, and that Peeta's brother was alive.

But Clove had left before Lady Coinn claimed to be responsible for Lord Undersee's capture, and before the king had sentenced his own sister and lover to death by fire. Would Haymið, Bogg, and the others still think to trust Lady Coinn and follow her plan, because they did not have this important information?

And then there was another matter. "The king's adviser, Josef," Margaretha said. "He is to be proclaimed prince regent. Is he a good man?"

A faint blush bloomed on Emme's cheeks. "I do not know him very well, and he often sounds harsh but… I would like to think that there is, in his heart of hearts, goodness in him."

"You are fond of him," Margaretha observed.

"I…" The tribute looked away. "Sometimes he is the only person in this place who seems human to me."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Josef leaned back in his seat, wincing as he looked down at his injured leg. Emme had cleaned the knife wound and dressed it before returning to the women's chambers where the unconscious Lady Margaretha had been taken.

_Those Northerners,_ Josef fumed. _Demons, all of them. Even the women. Especially the women._ He recalled the pretty girl who had thrown the knife: Lady Margaretha's handmaiden, or so she was introduced, and so he had believed her to be, until she drew the daggers from her sleeves and slew three men twice her size. It was the first time he had seen with his own eyes the way a Northerner fought, and to witness a young woman, a mere _girl_ kill the king's elite guard—some of the deadliest men in the land—chilled him to the bone. It made all the fantastic stories the priests liked to tell seem tame in comparison. _They do not fear death. They welcome it, for to die in battle is the highest honor one can receive, and the only way they can impress their false gods._ He wondered briefly if this selfsame girl had ransacked the monastery he was supposed to have been sent to. The monastery that now served as the graveyard for Peeta's bones.

Hatred filled his heart, and though it was not the Christian thing to do, Josef relished it. In his twilight years, King Coriolan had been preoccupied with prolonging his own life, without much concern for the protection and expansion of the kingdom of Panym. That would change, once Josef was prince regent.

_I will declare war on every last unbeliever. I will not rest until the entirety of the North is burned to the ground. I will not rest until I avenge the murder of my brother._

He thought of the knife-wielding Northern girl once more. He should not have been surprised. What did he expect of someone allied to the mockingjays? Lady Coinn herself attested that Margaretha was born of Maysilleigh, one of Lord Donner's twin daughters. Rumors of rebellion had followed the house of Donner for almost its entire existence, but they were as cunning as they came, and for years there had never been any proof that they were plotting. As if that were not enough, it had been whispered about that Maysilleigh had taken a Northman as a lover, and what good had ever issued from a Northman?

It was not that the alternative was much better. Maysilleigh's twin sister Magthilde had married Edric Undersee, Lord Donner's ward who had unfortunately absorbed his idiotic ideologies. Together, husband and wife had colluded to steal from the king's treasury. They were burned to death last year, around the same time Josef himself was taken as a tribute.

Regardless of who Margaretha's parents were, the apple would not have fallen far from the tree. Though Josef had not been at the courts for very long, in his opinion the house of Donner had given the realm nothing but trouble.

A creaking sound caused him to lift his eyes, and he saw Emme standing by the door that connected the king's chambers to the women's.

"Does the king require further assistance from me?" the thin young woman asked timidly. "Or from Lady Margaretha?"

Josef glanced at King Coriolan, who as a consequence of his age and state of health had taken to falling asleep at the most inopportune times, including now. "I think that will be all. Have some rest, for tomorrow shall be a busy day. I shall be retiring soon, myself."

The tribute opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head and retreated.

Josef stood up and limped slowly and painfully to the door, where a new group of six guards had arrived to replace those that the little Northern bitch, Lady Coinn's personal bodyguard, and Lady Margaretha had killed.

"Do not let anyone enter," he instructed the new guards. "There was an attempt on the king's life today, and we must be more vigilant than ever before. Panym prevails."

Josef turned to leave, but to his surprise one of the guards put a hand on his chest and pushed him against the wall. The guard turned his head and spoke over his shoulder to the others.

In Norse.

Josef struggled, and tried to shout for help, but the man clamped his other hand over his mouth, silencing and incapacitating him completely. Where did the Northmen get their strength? It was said that they rowed for days, even weeks on end, and then jumped off the boats to begin fighting immediately.

The rest of the men gathered around them. One guard reached out and patted him on the cheek. "Excitement," he informed him, grinning broadly. He had dimples and perfectly straight white teeth.

The others chattered to each other in the devil's tongue, and finally one of them stepped forward and pulled off his helm.

"Brother," Peeta said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Thank God you are alive."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

When the door to the women's chambers opened once more, and two armored guards walked in, Margaretha picked up the nearest torch and readied herself to fight.

"Josef said we were to retire," Emme said in protest. "We must be well rested for tomorrow's proclamation."

The guards' helms came off. "Do not worry," Darius said in the Saxon tongue. He pointed to his eyepatch. "We mean you no harm. I was once a tribute, too."

"Darius!" Margaretha gasped. "Jó!"

Margaretha threw her arms around the shieldmaiden before Jó could open her mouth to speak. "Thank goodness you are here," Margaretha said in Norse, squeezing her tight. She had never been happier to see another human being.

"I just saw you this morning," Jó pointed out gruffly. But her mouth softened around the edges as she accepted Margaretha's embrace.

Darius met Jó's eyes and smiled. "It is good to show affection once in a while."

Jó pursed her lips and looked away, rubbing Margaretha's back awkwardly. "I show affection all the time."

"Not directly," the one-eyed man replied. "Not like this."

"Well, I have seen for myself the kind of affection Margaretha is capable of," Jó said. "I am not too sure I care for it."

"How would you know?" Darius asked. "Have you ever tried?"

Margaretha pulled away and gestured towards the fox-faced young woman. "This is Emme," she said. As intrigued as she was by this banter between Jó and Darius, perhaps the lair of the mad king was not the best place to encourage it. "She helped me. Did Clove find you?"

"Yes," Jó said, clearly relieved to change the subject. "She met us in the square, after which she left to alert the others back at the camp. By now Haymið, Katnisse, and Gæl should know what is happening."

"Have you been to the dungeons?" Margaretha wanted to know. "That is where Lady Coinn and Sir Thread were taken."

"Not yet," Darius said. "I thought to come here first, knowing the king keeps the female tributes close at hand, and knowing I would never hear the end of it from Gæl if we did not prioritize your safety. We met the king's real bodyguards on the way in, and made quick work of them."

"Peeta's brother—"

"—is out in the corridor right now, talking to Peeta himself," Jó said. "The king is asleep in the main chambers. I had half a mind to slit his throat where he lay, but Finn wants to keep him alive and believing that nothing has changed. At least, not until tomorrow. It is all part of his grand plan."

"Grand plan?" Margaretha echoed. "What grand plan?"

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

The warriors bound Josef fast and carried him into another room where they could speak without waking the king.

"Negotiate with the Northmen?" Josef repeated in disbelief, straining against the ropes that lashed him to a chair. "Are you mad? Untie me at once!"

"Not until you consider our proposal," Peeta said. "Trust me, this is the best way. This is the path of least bloodshed. After tomorrow's proclamation, you will rule on behalf of the king, and you can take the side of peace rather than war. Many other places have similar arrangements: their rulers allow the Northmen to settle on their shores, in return for protection from other invaders. And, of course, there is the added benefit of getting rid of the tyrant King Coriolan."

"The path of least bloodshed is the path where the Northmen take their boats and go back to the frozen wasteland whence they came," Josef countered. "Panym and our neighboring kingdoms have been attacked, time and time again, by these monsters. Our wealth, our holy relics, our women... no-one is safe, and nothing is sacred. Why would we willingly give power, or land, to our enemies? Give me one reason why we should not retaliate, and attack them on their own soil, and do unto them what they have done unto us."

With a sinking heart, Peeta reflected on the possibility that Clove might be right: that Josef was truly working with the king. "Because King Coriolan is collecting human tribute," Peeta said, furrowing his brow. "Because he abuses the young men and women of Panym. Because you yourself have seen these atrocities firsthand. Because you would have become a victim yourself, were it not for your quick thinking. If what Clove told me was correct, the king intended to open your skull and eat your brain. Who is the monster now?"

"Who is Clove? You mean the girl who gave me this?" Josef jerked his head downwards to indicate the wound on his thigh.

"She was acting in self-defense."

"She is the spawn of Satan. They all are, the lot of them." Josef eyed the silver arm ring around his brother's wrist, and noted its distinctively Northern design. "What have they done to you, Peeta, to make you worship them so?"

"They gave me freedom," Peeta found himself saying. "They showed me that I can make my own decisions, forge my own destiny."

"They could not have freed you, without first making you their slave," Josef said. "How does the bird know that it flies free, if it has never tasted life in a cage?"

"If the bird has known nothing else but captivity," Peeta responded, "it will know once it is able to spread its wings."

Josef fell silent, regarding his younger brother critically. "It is a girl, is it not?"

"No," Peeta said, but his brother seized upon the slight waver in his tone.

"So it is a girl," Josef said in satisfaction. "It always is. It is the devil's way to tempt holy men with the flesh of an unclean woman. Is it Clove? Lady Margaretha? Or some other whore? Some other mutt?"

"Do not make the mistake of calling my friends whores," Peeta said dangerously. "Do not make the mistake of referring to them as mutts."

Josef shook his head sadly. "I thought you dead, my brother," he said. "The king brought me to the monastery, and I saw what the Northmen had reduced it to. Everything was in ruins. Nothing left but ashes and rubble, the ground littered with the bodies of good men. When I could not find you, I thought perhaps you had burned, or perhaps you had sunk to the bottom of the sea.

"But the truth is far worse," he continued. "You have broken your vows to the Holy Father and lain with the devils of the North. You ask me to hand over a Christian kingdom, united under the one true God, to savages who desecrate holy ground. You are a traitor. No, more than that... you are a test. You are God's way of testing me, to see if I will be a good ruler of Panym. Is that why you have come? Is that why you have returned?"

"I returned to fight for the children of Panym," Peeta declared. "And I had hoped... I had prayed to find you alive, and rescue you. Or if not, to give you a proper burial. You see, the day that you were taken as tribute... it had haunted me for so long. It crippled me with fear. I could not breathe; I could not live. It was not until I almost died, and then came to the North, that I began to reconcile the concept of a perfect God with that of an imperfect world. But I could not be truly happy until I knew what had become of you. Until I made my peace with the differences in our destiny."

Josef let out a short, sharp laugh, almost like a bark. "The differences in our destiny is plain to see," he told his brother. "Your rebellion is misguided. The worst Christian kingdom is better than the best pagan one."

"So you will not negotiate?" Peeta pressed. "You will not sit down and talk to the Northmen?"

"The answer is no," Josef shot back.

"Then you leave me no other choice." Peeta nodded curtly at the warriors, who proceeded to gag his brother and pull his hood over his face despite his muffled screams.

Finn grinned from where he stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. "You do look and sound quite similar. It will be easy to fool the king, easy to fool the rest of the kingdom."

Peeta nodded, his throat parched. "Perhaps he will reconsider after tonight, and I will not have to go through with it."

"I doubt it." Finn checked his reflection in the highly polished armor of another warrior. "If you are ever nervous, just think that this will be a rather quick way for you to afford Katnisse's bride-price."

Peeta's face flamed. "I did not even consider that."

"You will not have to consider many things after tomorrow." Finished with his preening, Finn faced him and attempted to bow in the manner of the Saxons. "All hail prince regent Peeta."

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

You could say that Josef has been hijacked. ;)

There's one more thing about the house of Donner, but you'll have to read _A Thousand Years_ to find out. :)

I hope to post the _Enthralled_ series finale on October 2, 2014. That's not only a Thorsday, it's also the fifth anniversary of the day **Medea Smyke** posted the very first Gadge story.


	21. Ragnarǫk

.

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

**Ragnarǫk**

.

What qualities, what defining characteristics, are most valued by the gods?

_Strength_, one might say, like that of the mighty Thor.

_Wisdom_, others might say, like that of Odin the All-Father.

_Cunning_, one might even say, like that of clever Loki, who is fire and smoke and shadow: capable of life-giving warmth, able to light the hearth and the forge, but also capable of chaos, terror, destruction.

All these answers are correct; all these answers are true. But there was something else, one quality that all gods endeavored to possess. And it was not strength or wisdom, which can be acquired; nor cunning, which can be used for evil. Rather, it was something so simple that it could be found in the hearts of the lowliest of men, but at the same time so important, so vital, that its loss would bring about Ragnarǫk.

It was honor.

So when Odin reflected upon the many ways the gods had broken their word—when they imprisoned Loki's monstrous wolf-son Fenrir through duplicity and deceit; when Loki caused the death of Odin's favorite son, fairest Baldur, at the hands of Baldur's own brother; and when Odin himself allowed the other gods to lay a hand upon his blood-brother, chaining Loki underneath the dripping jaws of a venomous serpent—the All-Father grieved, and sought counsel from the vǫlva, and from his old friend Mímir. But what he heard did not give him comfort.

_Ax time, sword time, 'ere the world fall;  
Wind time, wolf time!  
Do you know more now or not?_

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Josef called me a traitor," Peeta said in a low voice, his hand trembling as he passed it in front of his face. "He called you—Clove—everyone—mutts. Whores. He said… he said our rebellion was misguided, and that the Northmen were the spawn of Satan."

"Do not listen to him, Peeta," Margaretha said, putting her arms around him, the way Peeta had comforted her on the ship when she was first captured. "Josef has spent far too long in the company of King Coriolan. Perhaps at first, he was doing what he could to survive, but after he thought you were killed… he let his grief turn into anger. Into hatred. Into a desire for vengeance. Now he has convinced himself that he is on the side of righteousness."

"But we are the same, my brother and I," Peeta despaired. "Haymið took me under his wing, the same way King Coriolan chose to make Josef his adviser. Last summer, I _told _Haymið where to raid, I _told _him about the wealth of Earl Heavensby. I wished Panym would simply cease to exist, as if that would erase all the suffering I had experienced and witnessed. As for the earl... I perceived him to be on the king's side. I thought Josef was dead, and I blamed people like the earl just as much as I blamed King Coriolan himself. I am"—he choked on the words—"I am _responsible _for the death of your first husband. For the death of the earl, and the deaths of the rebels the earl had invited to your wedding feast. For the deaths of so many others." His beautiful eyes filled with tears. "I did not kill them myself, but I might as well have."

"Do not think that way, Peeta," Margaretha implored, feeling a sob rise in her throat. She held him tightly, wishing Katnisse was there to make him understand.

"If Cato, or anyone else, had succeeded in raping you before Haymið intervened, I would have been responsible for that, too," Peeta reminded her. "Do you not see? If it had been me, not Josef, who was chosen as tribute… Josef would have been at the monastery the day it was attacked. Finn would have spared _his _life. Haymið would have given _him _his trust. You would have befriended _him_, not me. Katnisse would have loved _him_, not me. It would have been Josef storming the gates of the king's stronghold with the Northmen, and _I _would have been the one bound and gagged. _I _would have been the one calling Josef a traitor. Who is to say I am right, and he is wrong?"

"_I_ say so," Margaretha insisted. She recalled a similar conversation she had with Gæl, not too long ago, about Thome. "Thus far you have spoken of chance, but that is not why you find yourself in the position you are in now. The life you have now, the _man _you are now—those are because of the choices you have made. Even if you had been the one chosen as tribute, it does not mean you would have acted the same way as Josef had. You said it yourself—you are brothers, with the same upbringing. You were placed in similar situations—Josef with the king, you with Haymið. Who is the one seeking peace? Or, at least, the path of least bloodshed? You, Peeta. Who is fighting for the children of Panym? _You_, Peeta."

"Do you forgive me?" Peeta asked desperately. "For what I have done? For leading the army of Tolv to your home? For being the reason you became a thrall?"

"Many of these things are not mine to forgive," Margaretha told him. "And I, myself, often feel guilt, for I have found love and happiness at the expense of so much death. All we can do is to help end the cycle of suffering. That is what you are doing now, and what Josef is not."

Finn had been listening, and at this he opened his mouth to speak. "I agree with Margaretha. But, more importantly, it is not a question of you against your brother," he said. "If what you say is true, then Josef is just being used as a piece in someone else's game. Remember why we are here. Remember who the real enemy is."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

In the dungeons, Sir Thread's shackles rattled as he clenched his fists. "You said you loved me," he said in a low voice. "You said you were forced to marry the earl, and that there was nothing you could do. You said that was the only reason we could not be together openly."

"Of course I was forced to marry the earl," Lady Coinn snapped. "How else could I get away from my half-brother, who thought I was good enough to fuck, but not good enough to be his queen? Or our father, who never once considered me for the throne? I had to leave the castle, and marriage was the only way."

"The king said you pursued the earl," Sir Thread said doggedly, anger mixed with jealousy. "Like a whore."

"All women who have ever opened their legs for a man, and even those who never have, are whores in Coriolan's eyes."

"That is not the point," he said, licking his scarred lips. "The point is that you seduced him. Perhaps in the same way you seduced me."

The corner of Lady Coinn's mouth curled in bitter amusement. "Oh, I hardly think any seduction was necessary."

"True. It had been unnecessary. So unnecessary, in fact, that after the earl was killed, I stayed by your side even though you did not marry me, as you had once promised."

"It is as I told you. I needed to concern myself with the rebellion."

Sir Thread narrowed his eyes. "Whom were you planning to seduce after me? Bogg? Haymið? The prince regent?"

Lady Coinn threw her head back and laughed. "Power is the only bedfellow I need," she told him. "If I were queen, I would not have to seduce anybody. Even after all this time, you still do not understand. Perhaps I should not blame you… few women have the stomach, or the stones, to imagine life without a man. For a time I thought Margaretha was a woman after my own heart, ready to do whatever it took to survive, but equally ready to leave a man she no longer needed. Alas, I was wrong. The promise of returning to Panym and to her former status was not enough to make her leave that man, as I would have done in a heartbeat. Very handsome, yes, and as virile as they come, I expect, but an insignificant individual in the grand scheme of things. In fact, for the life of me, I cannot even remember his name."

"Hallvardson," Sir Thread said. "His name is Gæl Hallvardson."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Without Finn or Margaretha to play the lyre, and without Peeta to inspire Katnisse to sing, there was no music to be heard as the Northern army broke camp and journeyed towards the castle.

Still, Gæl could hear the song in his mind, and his heart pounded to the rhythm that refused to stop running through his head.

_When the world tree trembles_

_and the three cockerels crow;_

"Cato," he found himself saying to the berserker. "Cato."

The blond warrior looked at him with surprise. "Yes?" They had never been friends. Hejsel had once mentioned that Cato's parents had a loveless marriage, and that Cato's father took pleasure in raping women on the raids until Haymið put a stop to it.

_When the jotuns' icy breath_

_covers the earth in snow;_

"I need your help," Gæl managed to say. The voice he heard coming from his own mouth was unfamiliar, hoarse, strangled. He felt as if he were grasping at the last threads of sanity. "I am full of rage… I want nothing more but to slay every last man and woman who wish Margaretha harm… but I… I cannot think. I cannot even hold my sword without… shaking… like the last leaf of autumn."

_Allies shall attack allies,_

_brothers betray brothers;_

Gæl clutched the golden mockingjay in his hand, blinking as his vision darkened, and lightened, and darkened again. _Remember what Haymið said. Margaretha will live. As you live for her, she will live for you._

"You are the only one who can help me," Gæl said to Cato. "Please."

_Loki shall be let loose,_

_Fenrir freed of his fetters._

"You are going berserk," Cato said in understanding. "Did Jó leave you any of her mushrooms before she left?"

"No," Gæl rasped. "This… this is… this is only me."

"You must control it," the blond said urgently.

"How?" Gæl asked in desperation.

_Watch for these signs, brave warrior,_

_for the end is near._

"Take deep breaths," Cato instructed. "Clear your mind of everything but the mission. Of what you intend to achieve."

Gæl squeezed his eyes shut and did as he was told. _Save the tributes, end the reign of the mad king, _he thought. _Save_ _Margaretha. _

An image of his beloved filled his mind's eye. Margaretha, her lovely face flushed and covered with a light sheen of sweat, the way she looked on the first night they made love. _We will live to see the end of this rebellion, _he had promised then. _We will grow old together, surrounded by our children and grandchildren._ Gæl would keep that promise, as he had kept all the others. He was a man of his word. He was a man of honor.

_Rise up and fight, noble warrior,_

_Ragnarǫk is here._

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"It looks like it is just you and me tonight," Darius said lightly, as he and Jó took up watch outside the room where Peeta's brother was held prisoner. "Until Gæl and the reinforcements arrive."

Jó crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Yes, it does look that way." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Have you been speaking to Katnisse?"

"The archer? No, why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular." The shieldmaiden set her jaw.

With one hand, Darius held out a flagon of wine. "I found this in the king's chambers. Have you had Frankish wine before?"

Jó scowled. "Of course I have. We get barrels of it from the raids every summer. But I much prefer ale or mead."

With the other hand, Darius brandished a block of cheese. "Perhaps it is because you do not know the proper way of drinking wine."

"Stop trying to tell me what I do or do not know, and what I should or should not want," Jó seethed. "It makes me—it makes me—"

"It makes you what?" the one-eyed man wanted to know.

"Nothing," she lied.

"It makes you _what_, Jórunnr?" he repeated.

The way Darius said her name caused a rush of blood to her ears. Few people ever called Jó by her full name. The only other person who always called her Jórunnr was… Ulf.

Darius had hair like Ulf's, too.

Jó rubbed her palms together and breathed on them, wishing she was still wearing her wolfskin. She had left it hidden under a rock at the castle gates, before she donned the armor of the guards. She rather liked disrobing—it never failed to get a rise out of Katnisse—but tonight, alone with Darius, without the skin of the animal that bore her first love's name, Jó had never felt more naked.

Darius looked at her expectantly. _This would all be so much easier if he were not so handsome. _Perhaps not as handsome as Ulf, not even as handsome as that idiot Finnbjorn who had managed to win the heart of Ulf's sister Anni, but still…

"It makes me want to yank that stupid eyepatch off," was all she could bite back.

Katnisse's words echoed in her ears. _Odin has made his introduction,_ the older Eyvindsdottir had announced, with a flair for the dramatic that would have made the late skald proud. _Darius the One-Eyed._

As much as she loved Katnisse, Jó knew her friend could not have been more wrong. Why would Odin send her a Saxon? Besides, the All-Father did not even wear an eyepatch. He just combed his hair over his missing eye.

Darius put down the cheese and wine. "Take it off, then," he said, spreading his arms. "Be my guest."

Jó was momentarily taken aback, but then she marched up to him and pulled the piece of black cloth from his face.

She half-expected there to be a gaping void where his eyeball used to be, but there was only a horizontal scar.

Darius captured her wrist in his hand, and suddenly Jó could not stop herself from thinking what his long, slender fingers could do to her if she would only let him.

"I cannot take you seriously if you look like that," Jó said, hoping she sounded as disgusted at him as she was actually disgusted with herself. "You look like you are winking all the time."

"Do I?" he asked softly.

Despite her better judgment, Jó brushed her thumb across his scar, with more tenderness than she ever thought herself capable of. "Yes," she said. "You look ridiculous."

"Jórunnr?"

"Yes?" Jó said, hardly trusting herself to speak.

"I never told you what you should or should not want."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"My lord."

Josef opened his weary eyes to find Emme kneeling at his feet. When he pulled himself into an upright sitting position, she reached up and loosened the gag from his mouth, and pushed the top of his hood farther up his forehead. "Shh," she said, holding a finger to her lips in warning.

The memories came flooding back. The return of Lady Coinn, with the half-Saxon, half-Northern Lady Margaretha in tow. The demon girl who had killed three of the king's personal bodyguards, and buried a dagger in his leg with pinpoint accuracy from across the room. And Peeta, his poor brother, whose weak mind and even weaker loins made him easy prey for the pagans who wanted to carve up the kingdom of Panym. _His _kingdom.

"Let us flee," Emme said urgently. "Let us run away from here, and be free of both the king and the Northmen forever."

"No," Josef said. "We must fight."

Her green eyes grew even wider. "Fight? Have you not seen what the Northmen can do?"

"I would rather die than surrender. I would rather you kill me now."

"I cannot kill you," Emme said fervently. "I could never, for I—I care for you."

Josef was startled at the raw emotion in her voice. "I… I did not know."

"I do," she admitted. "Many times I have considered killing myself, but I never could. Even after all the horror and the fear… at least, if I were alive, I could wake up the next day and see you."

"I too have thought of killing myself many times," Josef confessed. "It was only the fear of God's wrath that stayed my hand. In fact…" He hesitated. "If you could be so kind, Emme, to please look in the pouch at my belt."

Emme's forehead wrinkled in confusion, but she obeyed.

When she opened her palm to reveal a small bunch of berries and their leaves, all became clear.

"Nightlock," she breathed.

"Yes," Josef said softly. "We cannot do it alone, but perhaps we can do it together. Together we shall leave this world behind. Together we shall flee to a place where there is no pain, nor shame. A place where only God can find us."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Emme was dead, and Josef gone, by the time they found her body.

"Emme," Margaretha whispered, sinking to her knees beside the young woman's cold, wide-eyed corpse. There were berries and leaves on the ground, and she gathered them in her hands.

"Nightlock," Peeta said, his face almost as pale as the lifeless tribute's.

Finn fumed at Darius and Jó. "What were you doing, that she was able to sneak in, and he was able to sneak out without you knowing?" He considered it for a moment, then barked: "Never you mind! I do not need to hear the answer. It is my fault for putting the two of you on watch together. I should have known." He glared at them. "Be glad that you were not ambushed while you were… while you were not paying attention. You could have been hurt. You could have been killed."

"I apologize," Darius said. "I—we—it was our fault, not yours."

Jó's instinct was to throw the blame back in his face, but she knew she shared in it. In fact, as much as she hated to admit it, his acknowledgment of their mutually inappropriate conduct caused Darius to grow higher in her esteem.

"We will find him," Jó vowed, her face still red.

"You must," Finn said, his mouth set in a thin line. "The success of the plan depends on it."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Darius and Jó encountered the rest of the Northern army at the gate.

"Where is Margaretha?" Gæl demanded, his grey eyes wild.

"Safe with Peeta," Jó said, frowning at the panic in his voice. "Safe with Finn."

She glanced at Darius, and a look of understanding passed between them that did not escape Katnisse. "We captured Josef, but now he is loose," Jó said. "We thought to check here first, to make sure he has not escaped."

"The walls are surrounded by our men," Bogg said. "No-one has been in or out for the past hour."

"That is a good sign," Darius said. "But we need to keep looking, and for this we need more warriors. We should cover as much ground, and replace as many Saxon guards, as possible. Everything needs to be in place before the proclamation tomorrow."

"I will go with you," Gæl volunteered.

"As will I," Katnisse said, and many more warriors followed suit.

"Is there anything else we need to know?" Haymið questioned.

"Lady Coinn claimed she betrayed Margaretha's parents, and caused them to be executed," Jó said. "It is not certain whether she is telling the truth. Regardless, she is not to be trusted."

"Where is Lady Coinn now?" Haymið wanted to know.

"In the dungeons," Darius said. "With Sir Thread."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Margaretha," Lady Coinn said, weakly but imperiously, when her former daughter-in-law arrived at the dungeons with Finn at her side. Peeta had stayed behind, in case the king awoke and requested to see his adviser. "Sweet child, come and unchain me. There is still time. The rebellion can still succeed. We can still win."

"How dare you speak about the rebellion to me?" Margaretha said furiously. "After all you claimed to have done? You boasted to the king—your brother, your _lover_—that it was you who betrayed my parents, you who all but sentenced them to die."

"Dearest child," Lady Coinn said, coughing in a way that reminded Margaretha of King Coriolan. "Have you not been listening? Edric and Magthilde were not your parents. Your natural parents were none other than Haymið and Maysilleigh."

"How can I believe you?" Margaretha demanded. "How can I even begin to sift through your lies, and find the one thing that is true? If there is even _any_ truth, integrity, or honor at all to what you say or do?"

"My brother did not care which of the twins he would have as his concubine," Lady Coinn told her. "Your grandparents had no choice, for to refuse the king would be tantamount to treason. Few people know this, but at the time Magthilde was already pregnant, though she and Edric were not yet married. That is why Maysilleigh volunteered.

"As noble as her intentions were, Maysilleigh could not go through with it. The day she was supposed to be sent to the king was also the day of her sister's wedding. She ran away after the festivities and went to a monastery, hoping no-one would think of looking for her there. But almost as soon as she had arrived, so did the heathens.

"A month later she returned to her family, and it was then that they learned the truth. She had rescued an injured young Northman and nursed him back to health. As these stories often go, they fell in love, but as you already know, Maysilleigh chose to stay in Panym and reunite with her sister. It was not until another month later, long after Haymið had returned to the North, that she discovered she was with child.

"In the end, Magthilde miscarried, and months later Maysilleigh died in childbirth. It was inevitable that Magthilde and Edric would take you and raise you as their own. Fortuitous, too, for as a result of the miscarriage they were never able to conceive another." Lady Coinn raised her eyebrows triumphantly at the younger woman. "So you see, dearest Margaretha, I did not betray your parents. They were only your aunt and uncle. When you think about it, by sacrificing Edric and Magthilde, I made it possible for you to meet Haymið, and for you to learn the truth of your birth."

"_Only_ my aunt and uncle?" Margaretha repeated, outraged. "It does not matter that Magthilde did not carry me in her womb herself, or that Edric was not the one who put me there. It only matters that they taught me to be a good person, and that they loved me as their own. These were the people who brought me up, the ones who cared for me and protected me. The only people who, up until very recently, I could truly say I loved."

Lady Coinn smiled viciously. "Love, you say? Let us talk about love, then. If I had not betrayed your parents, you would not have married Seneca, and you would not have been at the wedding feast where, once again, it was apparently destined for another mockingjay to fall in love with another raven. By sacrificing your _husband_, my own _son_"—and at this, Lady Coinn's voice became so high-pitched and distraught that Margaretha thought she might have gone mad—"I allowed you to meet your _one true love_." She spat the words out like venom.

Margaretha could bear it no longer. She slapped Lady Coinn in the face, with all the anger in her body. It stung her hand, but she welcomed the pain, and she drew her hand back to strike again.

An arm wrapped around Margaretha's waist and lifted her off the ground, leaving her clawing at the air. "You bitch!" Margaretha snarled. "How dare you talk about love to me? How dare you? _How dare you_!"

"Shut up, half-blood," Josef growled. As weak as he looked, desperation had lent him strength, and now he had a knife at her breast. "We all agree with the sentiment; there is no need to shout it out loud. That is why I only freed _him_, and not her."

Sir Thread's shackles had been unlocked all this time, and now he had Finn in a stranglehold, his green eyes wide and his trident now pointed at his own throat.

"What do you want with us?" Margaretha said, paralyzed with terror at the sight of the mighty Finn—Finnbjorn Oddarson, Finn the Red, renowned warrior of the North—at the mercy of another man.

_Anni. Sægeirr. Unna._

_No._

"Like I told the king in private earlier, I want to make his dream come true." Josef's pale blue eyes, so familiar and yet so terrifying, bore into hers. "The proclamation will not be until tomorrow, but the gold should already be at the forge, prepared and waiting."

"Gold?" Margaretha echoed.

"Have you forgotten so quickly? The dream I told you about, the dream I interpreted for the king," Josef said. "The dream where the mockingjays and the ravens were turned into gold."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"There she is," Thome said, pointing down the corridor.

Gæl whipped around and saw the bloodstained hem of Margaretha's wedding dress as it—and Margaretha herself—was dragged _away_ from where Darius said the dungeons were.

"Is that Peeta's brother?" Cato asked, aghast. "He is large, but he has a limp. He looks weak. Why does she not fight him? Why does she not resist?"

Katnisse nocked an arrow in her bow. "She is doing it to protect him."

"Who?"

Katnisse raised the bow, and set her sights on the back of a large, white-haired man carrying a trident. "Finn."

Once more Katnisse's aim was true, and Sir Thread sagged to his knees, releasing his hold on Finn. Quick as lightning, Finn disengaged himself from his captor and recovered his weapon.

"Shoot Josef," Gæl said, calling to Katnisse over his shoulder as he and the others ran towards Finn and Margaretha. "Shoot him, before he realizes what is happening!"

By then Katnisse already had Josef in her sights, but she could not loose the arrow. _He is Peeta's brother, _she thought frantically._ He looks so much like him._ _Peeta had such high hopes that he could rescue Josef. Perhaps his mind can still be saved._

Katnisse aimed lower, and shot Peeta's brother in his good leg. Josef cried out, and the knife he was holding clattered to the ground. In a flash, Clove was there, stepping on his hand and swooping down to retrieve the weapon. "I shall be taking that, thank you very much," she told the Saxon man in his own tongue.

Cato and Thome had barreled headlong along the corridor and tackled Sir Thread, pinning his arms behind his back, Finn standing above him with his trident ready to strike.

And in the flurry of weapons and bodies, a crystal clear voice cut through the haze of rage in Gæl's mind.

"Gæl," Margaretha said, her arms reaching out for him. "Gæl."

How they found each other's lips they would never know, for his eyes were blurry and so were hers, but find them they did, and despite the salt in their sweat and tears nothing had ever tasted sweeter.

"I told you," he whispered in her ear as he crushed her body to his, "I am a man who keeps his promises."

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N:**

Happy Gadge Day, everyone :)

ALMOST DONE! This was pretty much the only place I could reasonably cut it without making you want to kill me.

The "ax time, sword time" verse is from the _Vǫluspá_, but I used the translation/sequence found in _D'Aulaires' Book of Norse Myths_.

The verses that Gæl hears while talking to Cato are my own. I tried to use a lot of alliteration, which the skalds were known for. But, other than that, I didn't attempt to follow any of the other rules of Old Norse poetry because they are ridiculously hard for a non-poet.

I'd like to believe that, in THG, Foxface ate the nightlock berries on purpose. She was portrayed as incredibly clever, and in the movie's training scenes she was working on plant identification. Whatever her reason was (and I enjoy fics in which she's shipped with Thresh), my headcanon is that she meant to do that.

I'm crazy beat and dying to read all the Gadge Day goodies on Tumblr, so I hope it's okay if I delay the final chapter (for real this time) a little while longer!


	22. Lífþrasir

**.**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

**Lífþrasir**

**.**

When at last they came up for air, their lips bruised from each other's kisses, Gæl gently cradled Margaretha's face in his hand. "Are you all right?" he asked tenderly. "Did they hurt you?" He glanced down at her dress, suddenly terrified of the answer, his mind threatening to cloud with rage once more.

Margaretha turned her head and pressed a kiss into his palm. "I was hit," she admitted. "But it is a small matter."

"You killed the man who overcame me," Clove said. "That is no small matter."

Gæl smiled with relief and held his betrothed close. "Róry will be so envious that you saw action before he did," he said proudly. "If it is what you desire, we can make a shieldmaiden out of you yet."

"Maybe," Margaretha said, managing a shaky laugh. "But I predict it will take some time."

Gæl's heart leaped at the way she immediately touched her belly. "Are you…" he trailed off, placing his hand over hers.

A blush spread across Margaretha's cheeks. "It is too early," she told him. "Too early to know for sure."

An unfamiliar laugh echoed off the walls, and all those who were present swiveled their heads to find the source.

"What a heartwarming reunion," Sir Thread said contemptuously in Norse. It was the first time the Northmen had ever heard him speak; before this, they knew him only as Lady Coinn's shadow. "I was wrong in my estimation. I thought you a warrior, not a lover, Gæl Hallvardson."

Thome and Cato tightened their grip on the white-haired man, and Finn held his trident against Thread's chest. The king's men had previously stripped Lady Coinn's bodyguard of his armor, leaving only his clothes and his chain mail. "You have not been given permission to talk," Finn reprimanded him coldly.

"Let him speak," Gæl found himself saying. "Let us hear what he has to say."

"Gæl, no," Margaretha pleaded, clinging to him, her eyes round with fear.

But Gæl had disengaged himself from her embrace, and walked to where Sir Thread was held captive. "What is your problem with me, old man?" he demanded.

_There is something very strange about him, _Hejsel had said.

"Before we allied with Lady Coinn, you were a stranger to me," Gæl said. "And yet I find that, at every turn, you are always there, watching me with daggers in your eyes."

_But at the same time..._

"I may be a stranger to you," Sir Thread said, "but you are not a stranger to me."

... _there is something very, very familiar._

"Do not listen to him," Katnisse said from where she stood next to Josef and the warriors from Tretten who held him fast.

"He is only saying this to provoke you," Thome warned. "Do not give him what he wants."

"Remember what we spoke about," Cato reminded him. "Remember control."

Gæl did remember. _Take deep breaths. Clear your mind of everything but the mission. _But the mission was the last thing on his mind.

"I do not care to play guessing games with someone such as yourself," Gæl said, drawing his sword and pointing it at Sir Thread. "Speak plainly, or do not speak at all."

"Your mother did not recognize me, and neither did Haymið or any of the others, because I always fight with a helm," Sir Thread said. "But before I came into the service of Earl Heavensby, I was a soldier myself. Your army battled mine on two occasions. I knew your father; I have seen him fight. I have fought with him myself."

"You lie," Gæl said, his heart pounding in his chest. "If you met my father on the battlefield, you would not be alive to tell the tale."

"The first time, I was not the one he faced. No... it was my son that he fought. My son that he slew." Sir Thread stared at the younger man with pure hatred in his eyes.

"From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you had to be the son of the man who killed mine. In truth, you are the very image of him... the second coming of the great and mighty Hallvard of Tolv." Sir Thread spat the words out like venom. "I would not be surprised if you had killed Lady Coinn's son Seneca as well, seeing as you have rather enthusiastically claimed his bride for your own."

"If that is true, and my father truly killed your son, then your anger is justified," Gæl said. "But you should never have entered an alliance with someone you hated so. That is what my father taught me about trust... what he taught me about honor."

Sir Thread's sinister laugh boomed in Gæl's ears. "It is rather touching, the way sons idolize their fathers. As if they could do no wrong. As if they were gods walking among men. But let me tell you this, boy... your father was no god." His smile, like his voice, was full of derision. "I know, because the second time we met in battle, I killed Hallvard myself."

The silence that followed was so deadly, so absolute, that it caused a deafening ringing in everyone's ears.

"Release him," Gæl said softly.

"Gæl, please—" Margaretha cried.

"I do not think that is wise—" Finn protested.

"_Release him_!" he roared.

Thome and Cato had no choice but to comply, and Sir Thread shook himself free of their grasp.

"Give him a weapon," Gæl said. In the blink of an eye, his voice had changed once more, and now he sounded dangerously calm.

Clove pulled Cato's sword out from its scabbard and tossed it to the older man, who caught it without missing a beat.

Clove stepped back and nodded at Gæl. She understood, perhaps better than anyone else, that Gæl would not find peace until he found retribution.

"I will fight you," Sir Thread said, "only on the condition that no-one interferes."

"You have my word," Gæl said. "This is between you and me."

They circled each other slowly, like predators sizing up their prey.

"Whatever enmity you hold in the darkness of your heart," Gæl said to Sir Thread, "I will end it tonight."

As he swore the oath with his lips, the battle-song was singing in his heart.

_Ax time, sword time, 'ere the world fall; _

_Wind time, wolf time! _

_Do you know more now, or not?_

"I will die happily," Sir Thread replied, "if it means I will send you to the hell where your father has been rotting for the past four years."

_Ax time, sword time..._

"Whether you refer to Hel, or to the Christian hell, you can be sure that my father will not be found in either," Gæl said. "He drinks with the gods in Valhalla."

'_Ere the world fall..._

"Your father was a fool," Sir Thread sneered. "I shielded myself with a slave, and rather than run through both of us with his blade, he showed a moment's hesitation that was all I needed to defeat him. Continue to venerate your father if you must, but the truth is that Hallvard was weak. For all of his skill, all of his physical strength, like you he was not a true warrior. Were I a pagan, I would say that he died unworthy of Valhalla."

_Wind time, wolf time..._

"Say that again," Gæl challenged him. "I dare you."

_Do you know more now..._

Sir Thread licked his scarred lips in triumph. "Your father did not go to Valhalla," he declared. "And neither will you."

... _Or not?_

With a battle cry that was terrible to hear, Gæl charged at him at full speed.

Gæl's ears were filled with the clang of metal on metal as their swords clashed. Sir Thread was old, but he was a seasoned fighter, and he parried the younger man's blows again and again.

"I killed your father," Sir Thread growled, their faces only inches away from each other as their swords crossed and fought for purchase. "I will kill you, too."

"I shall avenge him," Gæl said, his eyes black with fury as he pressed forward against the weight of his enemy's body. "I will take your life as repayment for his own, and strip you of your dignity as recompense for the slurs you have made upon his honor."

He twisted away abruptly, causing Sir Thread to lose his balance. Gæl seized this opportunity and thrust his sword at him once more. He caught Sir Thread on the forearm, which the older man's chain mail did not reach, and soon his opponent's woolen sleeve bloomed red with blood.

Sir Thread looked down at his wound, and back up again. "That is the last blow you will ever land."

He lashed out wildly, and while Gæl was able to evade him for some time, his movements were so erratic that Gæl could not anticipate each one.

Sir Thread knocked Gæl's sword out of his hand, causing his weapon to clatter uselessly to the ground. Then he spun around and hacked savagely at Gæl's back, bringing the Northerner to his knees.

"How fitting," Gæl managed to say, even as the pain caused spots to dance before his eyes, "that our treacherous ally has attempted to stab me in the back."

"I think this time I shall opt for a decapitation," Sir Thread said, holding his sword out in front of him with both hands. "And give your head to the next man who claims the woman you love." He glanced up at Thome and Cato. "From what I hear, there are many who would jump at the chance."

With Thor as his witness, Gæl had never hated anyone more.

As Sir Thread's sword slashed downwards and Gæl's vision threatened to turn black forever, all he could hear was the sound of Margaretha screaming.

But instead of cold iron on the nape of his neck, all Gæl felt was Margaretha's arms wrapping around him, and—a split second later—the thud of Sir Thread's body falling on the floor.

Gæl looked over Margaretha's shoulder, and was astonished to find one each of Katnisse's arrows and Clove's knives, together with Thome's sword, Cato's ax, and Finn's trident, all buried deep in Sir Thread's back, piercing the chain mail until blood pulsed out of the wounds in time to the fading heartbeat of a dying man.

"We did not give our word to Sir Thread," Thome said by way of explanation. "Only you did."

"Thank you," Gæl said hoarsely. "Thank you all."

As for Margaretha, she was herself unscathed. She seized his face, calling him a fool over and over again through her tears, and Gæl held on to her like a lifeline as he watched the man who killed his father die.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

The warriors disposed of Sir Thread's body and walked in the direction of the king's chambers, in order to return Josef to the room which he had previously escaped.

"I heard the fighting," Peeta said frantically, coming down the corridor to meet them. He saw Gæl limping towards him, supported by Margaretha on one side and Thome on the other. "What was happening?"

"This half-wit here challenged Sir Thread to a duel," Thome informed him.

Gæl grimaced in pain, but he managed to twist his features into a crooked grin for the former monk's benefit. "I shall tell you all about it some other time."

"Did you find my brother?" Peeta asked. "Darius and Jó said—"

The rest of the sentence died on his lips, for just then the rest of the warriors turned the corner and came into view.

There she was, dressed in leather and chain mail instead of the diaphanous dress of his dreams, but when she lifted her eyes to his he knew she had never been more beautiful.

"Katnisse," Peeta whispered, a lump forming in his throat.

"Peeta," Katnisse cried, her face lighting up at the sight of her love.

They ran towards each other as if on winged feet, and the next thing Peeta knew Katnisse was in his arms, filling his nostrils with her wildflower scent, covering his mouth with hers. She wound her fingers in his hair, and he drank her in like a man dying of thirst.

"Katnisse," Peeta gasped, when they broke apart. "Thank God."

"Do not leave my side ever again," Katnisse said fiercely, grasping his collar and staring into his eyes. "Not even for a moment."

He leaned his forehead against hers and nodded, the joy in his heart rendering him unable to speak.

"So this is your heathen whore," Josef said scornfully, reminding them that their ordeal was not yet over; no, not by far. "You should have just gone back to Delly when you had the chance."

Katnisse stepped away from Peeta and towards Josef. Though she was unable to understand what Josef was saying, she had caught the mention of Delly's name.

"What?" she asked, the Saxon accent unfamiliar on her tongue.

"God, these pagans are as stupid as they are violent," Josef said. "Like animals. Like mutts."

"Mutt," Katnisse repeated, narrowing her eyes. Though it was not a word she knew, Josef's jeering tone of voice was as clear as day.

"Yes, a mutt," Josef shot back. "That is what you are. A filthy, despicable mutt."

"She is not a mutt, nor is she a whore," Peeta said angrily. "She is the woman I will marry. She is a good person who fights for the people she loves. She is—she is—"

"A mockingjay," Margaretha said. These people, her _friends_, they were her family now, and the rebellion was theirs to win. "She is a mockingjay."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

After a fitful night's sleep—three times he woke up in a cold sweat, and each time Katnisse had to hold him and sing to him for half an hour before he slipped back into slumber—Peeta awoke on the day of the proclamation to the sound of a cockerel crowing.

_One_, he counted.

It crowed again. _Two. _And yet again. _Three._

_Why do so many things come in threes?_ There were three cockerels in the story of Ragnarǫk, each crowing to the others to herald the end of the world. Even in the Scriptures, a rooster crowed after Apostle Peter denied Christ three times.

The thought came to him without warning. _It is a bad omen._

Beside him, Katnisse stirred. "Is it time?" she asked sleepily, through half-closed eyes.

"Yes," Peeta said. "It is time."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"You do not seem to be quite yourself today, Josef," King Coriolan said, as they took their seats in the square for the proclamation.

The king's voice was calm, almost soothing, but his words nearly made Peeta jump out of his skin. _He knows, _Peeta despaired. _He is waiting for me to commit one mistake, one misstep, before he reveals his hand._

_Do not be foolish, _he argued with himself. _Josef is safely locked away. You look like him. You sound like him. You _are _him. You have nothing to fear. Just a little longer. It will all be over soon._

"Indeed, my lord, I do not feel like myself at all," Peeta said, his mind racing. "It is not every day that a humble peasant, the son of a farmer, is to be proclaimed prince regent and heir to the illustrious throne of Panym. You have raised me up, my lord king. I am a different person now: a better person. Because of _you_, my lord, I am Josef no longer."

King Coriolan smiled. "Well said," he praised. "Your powers of elocution have grown by leaps and bounds."

The king sounded sincerely satisfied with Peeta's answer. Still, the former monk could not shake the feeling that he would be caught at any moment.

As if there were not enough things to worry about, Peeta had belatedly realized that, apart from the king, he had an entire council of advisers to fool. The Archbishop of Panym. The master of coin, the man who had replaced Lord Undersee. The commander of the king's forces, who would surely have noticed by now that approximately a third of his men had suddenly become of Northern stock overnight.

Peeta tugged at the collar of his shirt, the finery they had found already laid out in Josef's bedroom, and tried not to make eye contact as the advisers filed past him.

The Archbishop sat down beside him. "It is a good day to become a prince," he noted. "I am glad to see some color in your cheeks at last, Josef. It becomes you, especially with your new clothes. You look altogether healthier and more wholesome. It seems you have taken my advice to heart—that more time spent outdoors admiring God's creation is balm for the soul."

From the corner of his eye, Peeta spotted Katnisse from where she perched, watching over the proceedings with her bow at the ready.

Finn appeared, dressed as a Saxon guard, with a bound and gagged Lady Coinn in tow. A similarly disguised Darius followed soon after, with Margaretha. Gæl had wanted to be the one to escort her, but he was in no shape to take part in the ruse. Last night Margaretha had given him medicine for the pain, and it had sent him quickly into a deep sleep. He would not awake until after all of this was through.

"Tie my sister to the stake," King Coriolan instructed. "Hook Lady Margaretha up to the post."

Finn brought Lady Coinn to the stake and did as he was told. Even from this distance, Peeta could tell that under the Saxon helm Finn was taking enormous pleasure in the intricate knot he had chosen for this special occasion. _Get on with it, _Peeta wanted to growl.

Darius had a faster time of it, simply looping Margaretha's bound wrists around a hook on a post.

The Archbishop clicked his tongue in pity. "Lord Undersee's daughter," he whispered to Peeta. "I had forgotten how beautiful she was. I prayed for her when her parents were executed, and again when she was taken by the Northmen, alas..."

_Prayed? _Peeta wondered. _You are in a position of power, in a position to influence the king. You could have stopped him from executing Lord Undersee and Lady Magthilde. Moreover, you could have prevented the king from demanding human tribute in the first place. But all you did was look away and pray, hoping that God would punish those you did not have the courage to stand up against._

Of course, in his heart Peeta knew it was never that simple. But still...

King Coriolan rose from his throne, which had been carried out into the square for this purpose. "We are here to celebrate three things," he announced to the people who had gathered. Despite his age and frail appearance, his voice was loud and clear. "The execution of two rebels: my sister, Lady Coinn of Panym, who coveted my title and my throne, and the lady Margaretha of the house of Donner, half-blood bastard of Northern issue, raised by the traitorous Lord Undersee whom we also put to death a year ago. And, of course, the proclamation of Josef, my adviser, my son in spirit if not in name or natural birth, as prince regent and my heir forevermore. Which shall we accomplish first?"

"As it is winter, and I can already feel the chill in my bones," the commander of the king's forces said, "I would suggest, my king, that we start by lighting a fire. Burn the traitor until she is nothing but ashes and smoke."

The king laughed. "Of course, of course. Wise counsel, Commander."

"But first," the Archbishop interjected, "we must give her the opportunity to say her last words, and make her peace with God."

Peeta's heart stopped.

"Very well," the king nodded. "Guard, remove the gag."

Finn looked blank, not comprehending what he was supposed to do. Darius coughed discreetly and motioned for him to remove the cloth tied around Lady Coinn's mouth.

Finn hesitated, knowing the danger in this course of action, knowing the extent of what Lady Coinn knew and could reveal.

"Guard!" the commander barked. "Do as your king tells you!"

"Northmen!" Lady Coinn shrieked, the moment her gag was removed. "The castle has been infiltrated by Northmen!"

King Coriolan narrowed his snake eyes at her. "What are you talking about, you madwoman?"

"Your so-called heir—he is an impostor, a fraud! That is not Josef, but his brother whom he presumed dead," Lady Coinn accused in a shrill voice. "He is working with the Northmen to take control of this good, Christian kingdom, and force you all to bow down to their false gods."

The king turned to look at his young adviser. "I see none but Josef before me."

"That is because I am, my lord king," Peeta lied, his stomach churning.

"He is not," Lady Coinn insisted.

"This is a grave accusation," the king said.

"Test him," Lady Coinn urged. "Test him and you will know that I speak the truth."

King Coriolan pursed his lips. "I do not normally listen to the ramblings of a traitor, but in this case..." He considered it for a moment, and came to a conclusion. "Very well. If you are the man you say you are, Josef, tell me... what was the punishment we had in mind for the lady Margaretha?"

Peeta's heart flooded with relief, for he knew the answer. "Why, the punishment I myself suggested to you, my king," he responded. "You had dreamed of a half-mockingjay, half-raven, and together with the other birds that were torturing you it was transformed into gold—gold that represented great wealth and prosperity for Panym. Thus I arranged for a cauldron of molten gold, to be poured over this half-Saxon, half-Northern abomination."

"Correct," the king said, pleased with the answer.

"That means nothing," Lady Coinn said. "Ask him to say the word, carry out the punishment himself."

"A reasonable request," King Coriolan conceded. He looked at Peeta. "Well, then?"

"I—" Peeta began, panic beginning to creep into his voice. He threw a glance at Darius standing beside Margaretha, and saw him with one hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike down the men who were carrying the cauldron.

"You see?" Lady Coinn crowed. "He cannot go through with it. He cannot—"

An arrow flew straight into her mouth, silencing her forever.

"What is the meaning of this?" King Coriolan bellowed, before he himself was pierced with another arrow through the heart.

Katnisse jumped down from her vantage point, the crowd parting as she made her way through to the front with her bow raised and her grey eyes hard and vindictive.

It was easy to determine which soldiers were Saxon and which were Northern, for the former looked to advance, while the latter formed a protective circle around the archer.

Clove walked backwards slowly, a spear in her hand instead of her usual knives.

Sword unsheathed, Cato had the same idea, and soon the berserker and the shieldmaiden found themselves back to back.

"If we survive this," Cato said, "will you come to Tolv's midwinter festival with me?"

"You really need to reevaluate your priorities," Clove answered, her eyes darting back and forth at the Saxon soldiers surrounding them.

"You did not say no," Cato said. "Are you saying yes?"

"If you are no longer a stupid, insensitive brute when all of this is over and done," Clove said, "I give you permission to ask again, and perhaps then I will have an answer."

Cato grinned. "You have yourself a deal."

Katnisse continued forward relentlessly. One by one the advisers fell. The commander of the king's army. The master of coin.

She trained her bow at the Archbishop, who held his hands up in surrender.

"Stop," Peeta said in Norse. "Katnisse, please. Let us end the killing now."

He turned to address the crowd. "Soldiers, noblemen, people of Panym," he said, this time in his native tongue, and in as loud a voice as he could muster. "Lady Coinn spoke the truth; I am not Josef. My name is Peeta, and I am his brother. I was once a monk, but I have been living in the North for the past year. Lady Coinn approached us, asking us to fight by her side against the king. I gladly joined her cause, because I knew firsthand of the suffering that the people of Panym endure. The suffering that you, and your children, endure.

"We are not here to kill the innocent. We have freed the tributes, or at least, those whom we found living. Before this, we have only raised arms against the king's guards. The Northmen can help us. It may sound strange, for we have long viewed them as the enemy, but this time they can be our allies. They can protect us from other invaders, and you will not have to give your children as tribute anymore." He paused to catch his breath. "What say you?"

For a moment there was no sound, no motion at all.

And then, in the middle of the crowd, an old woman touched three fingers to her lips, and raised them in the air.

One by one, the rest of the crowd did the same. Finally, even the Saxon soldiers laid down their arms and joined the others in the salute.

"What is happening?" Katnisse asked. "What does that sign mean?"

Peeta felt tears spring to his eyes. "It is an old gesture, a symbol from before the reign of King Coriolan's father," he said. "It means thanks. It means admiration."

The Archbishop was the next to speak. Once he had been a missionary, and he had traveled to the North lands in his youth. Now, he understood their exchange. "It has another, older meaning," he said. "The people have spoken. They have chosen you, Peeta, as their king."

"What?" Peeta cried.

The Archbishop turned to the crowd. "God save the king!" he shouted.

"God save the king," they echoed back to him.

The Archbishop repeated this for each point of the compass. Finally, he faced Peeta once more.

"Panym prevails," the Archbishop said. "God save the king."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Peeta, Haymið, and Bogg were whisked away by the Archbishop and what was left of the king's council to discuss the terms of a peace treaty with the Northmen. As for the rest, they stayed behind in the square.

"My plans are never anything less than brilliant," Finn boasted. "But this time I have truly exceeded expectations. I had contrived to make Peeta a prince, and now he is a king."

However, Jó was decidedly less than thrilled. "I suppose this makes you the queen," she muttered, addressing Katnisse.

"Of course not," Katnisse said immediately. Then she blushed, and qualified her statement. "Not yet, at least."

Jó fell silent. Then: "Does this mean you are going to stay in Panym?"

"Peeta and I spoke of this possibility last night," Katnisse admitted. "First he wishes to visit his family, and return Josef to them. Perhaps they can help him rediscover who he once was. After that, Peeta plans to sail back to Tolv, and formally ask my mother for my hand in marriage. Bogg can stay behind and look after his interests while Peeta is away. But to answer your question... yes, I intend to make this place my home, and it will be easier now that Peeta does not have to pretend to be his brother. I want to be with Peeta, and help him change Panym for the better."

The berserker seemed uncharacteristically close to tears. "What about Prim?"

"It is up to her to decide," Katnisse said, even as her heart constricted painfully at the thought of being separated from Prim. She took a deep breath, and carried on. "The weather is milder in Panym, and I am sure she and our mother would like to winter here. Perhaps they will like it so much that they will stay. Besides, Róry has longed to see Panym ever since Gæl began raiding... if Prim chooses to settle here, now or in the years to come, he is likely to follow." She hesitated, and looked hopefully at the friend she had come to view as her sister. "Can you be persuaded to remain here as well? You will always be welcome to live with us."

Jó appeared crestfallen. "I do not know."

Katnisse decided to change tack, and turned to Darius. "You are a Saxon. Do you have a home here? A family to return to?"

Darius looked at Jó with adoration in his eyes. "Wherever Jórunnr goes, I will go. Whether she stays in Panym, or returns to the North... whether she wants to travel to Éire, the Caliphate, or to sail off into the unknown… it does not matter."

Jó felt his hand brush against hers. Darius gave her a small smile and raised his eyebrows slightly as if to ask, _Is this all right?_

His touch filled her with a kind of courage that was different from anything she had ever felt before, berserker mushrooms or no, and she gratefully entwined his fingers with her own.

"I know Anni would prefer you to return to Tolv, but we will support whatever decision you make," Finn said sincerely. His face broke into an impish grin. "But please, promise me now that the two of you will never go on watch together again."

"We promise," Jó vowed, unable to suppress her smile.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

So it came to pass that a new day dawned in Panym.

Peeta's first decree as king was to abolish the system of human tribute, and to begin inquiries towards reforming taxation. With his council, he identified the lands which would be given to the allied forces of Tolv and Tretten, and outlined the responsibilities of defense that were expected of the Northmen.

"Things cannot change overnight," Peeta told Katnisse, as they stood on the balcony and watched the sun rise over their kingdom. "But we shall do what we can, to help the people of Panym."

Katnisse laid her head on his broad shoulder. "It is a good beginning."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

As for the Northern army itself, its warriors remained, tending to their wounded before setting sail for home.

"I never knew nightlock leaves could be used for pain," Thome remarked as he watched Gæl sip his midday dose of the concoction Margaretha had made. Peeta had insisted that the castle be used to shelter those who were recuperating—mainly those warriors sent to seek out and kill more Saxon guards on the eve of the proclamation, while the core group had been preoccupied with Josef and Sir Thread. Gæl was even given the privilege of staying in the chambers of the departed king himself, and the warrior was now propped up on his elbows on the soft, enormous bed.

"It was the only medicine that worked for my mothe—Lady Magthilde, when she had her headaches," Margaretha said, helping Gæl to lie back down onto his stomach. "We called it morphling."

"It seems fitting, even profound, that something used to kill can also be used to heal," Thome mused. "I feel there is a great truth to it. Perhaps this is how Odin felt, after he hung himself from Yggdrasil, at the very moment the secrets of the runes were revealed to him."

"There is a poem in that, I expect," Gæl said, yawning. The drink of crushed and boiled nightlock leaves left him drowsy, but not as much as it had the first day it was administered to him. "You should tell Finn, or perhaps you should not, depending on your opinion of his poetry."

"I wish Bristl were here," Thome said wistfully. "It is not the same, fighting without him."

"He is making sure we have a village to return to," Gæl said. "We will see him again soon, when we return to Tolv."

Thome smiled ruefully. "Actually, I have decided to stay in Panym with Bogg and the others," he revealed. "Perhaps we can be of service to Peeta and Katnisse." He glanced out the door to where the new king stood in the corridor, talking animatedly to a lovely, curvaceous blonde.

Margaretha followed Thome's gaze. "Is that Delly?"

The warrior blushed. "Do you know her?"

"Only from Peeta's stories," Margaretha said. "He told me she is one of the most kind-hearted people he has ever known."

"Gods, Thome," Gæl said, shaking his head. "You do like blondes."

Delly looked their way and lifted her hand, giving Thome a shy wave.

"Go on," Margaretha encouraged him. "Go there and talk to her. Peeta will help translate."

Thome ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. "Do you really think I should?"

"Just try not to buy her this time," Gæl joked.

Thome threw his friend a severe look as he ambled off towards Delly and Peeta.

Gæl shook his head, chuckling. "Wait until I tell Bristl."

Haymið appeared in the doorway.

"I hear you were almost defeated by an old man," the jarl said gruffly, addressing Gæl as he approached. Because of the negotiations, he did not have the opportunity to visit earlier.

"Thread killed my father," Gæl said. "I could not let it go unavenged. But it is difficult to defeat a man who is ready to die, when you yourself have every reason to live."

Haymið nodded, and turned to Margaretha. "We will begin preparations for your wedding at once," he told her. "People usually get married in the spring or summer, when there is enough honey to make mead, but—"

He broke off in mid-sentence when Margaretha threw her arms around him.

"Lady Coinn said Maysilleigh died in childbirth," Margaretha whispered. "I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me."

Haymið held her at arm's length, and stared at her in wonder. "Forgive you?" he asked incredulously. "There is nothing to forgive. In my dreams, you have always been my daughter. Now…" His eyes shone and his forehead furrowed in earnest. "Now I have awoken to find that my dream and reality are one and the same, and have been all along."

The jarl took Margaretha's hand, and Gæl's, and placed them on top of each other. "As I was saying, I have plenty of mead left in my winter stores, so you will not have to wait until spring."

"We are grateful, more than words could ever say," Gæl said humbly. He squeezed Margaretha's hand and looked Haymið in the eye. "I am honored to call you Father."

"Father," Margaretha echoed, savoring the word as it rolled off her tongue. It had been such a long time since she had occasion to say the word.

Margaretha looked at the man who would soon be her husband, and the man who had always been her father, and it was in this moment that she truly realized she was not an orphan, not a widow, not a thrall anymore.

"Father," she said, her heart full of light and happiness and love. "Take us home."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

When at last Ragnarǫk ended, and none of the gods were left standing save for Odin's youngest sons as well as Thor's, the earth split open to reveal gentle Baldur returning from Hel, leading his blind brother by the hand. Together, the last of the Æsir walked across Asgard, past the ruins of Odin's Valhalla and Freyja's Fólkvangr. Amidst the rubble they found the pieces of the table game they used to play. With no-one left to fight, nothing left to do, they sat down and played out their battles on the king's table, like Northern children do.

And out of a secret grove came a maiden and a youth, who had hidden inside a tree to escape the destruction that rained down upon mankind. Together, they stepped out into the light of a new day. Together, they would inherit the new earth, and their descendants would spread far and wide across a world that was better and more beautiful than the one that came before. The maiden's name was Lif, _life_, and the youth was called Lífþrasir: _lover of life_, or _stubborn will to live_.

**~ENDA~**

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**A/N:**

The final Clato scene was suggested by and is dedicated to **The Knife Throwing Expert**.

The Viking "honeymoon" was literally an entire month of the newlyweds drinking mead (made from honey) for fertility. I imagine this also involved them locking themselves up in the house and having lots of sex :P

Thank you for sticking with me every Thorsday/Friday! I'm so sad that this part of their story has come to a close, but I'm also excited now that I have time to write the modern "sequel", _A Thousand Years_; the short stories in _May the Gods Be Ever In Your Favor_; and, of course, non-Viking-Age fics. I love the _Enthralled _universe so much, and will never really leave it.

This fic would never have been completed without **Belle453**, who encouraged me when I was starting out and then yelled at me every Tyrsday so I could make my Thorsday deadline; **Solaryllis**, who gave me advice and talked me off a ledge whenever I was freaking out; **epipole**, who helped me with research, let me bounce ideas off her, and provided a Scandinavian perspective; **hawtsee**, who accepted my bride-price (!); and everyone who supported it, gave me feedback, and gave me inspiration, then as now.

So, so much love to you all.

With gratitude,  
DDG


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